Akdaan Literary Anthology 2 by Ysh Cabana

ᜀᜃ᜔ᜇᜀᜈ᜔

AKDAAN 2 LITERARY anthology

Akdang Dayo

AKDAAN Toronto

Publisher Migrante Canada © Migrante Canada 2015 Petronila G. Cleto Editor Luisito V. Queaño Associate Editor Christopher C. Sorio Publishing Manager Ysh Cabaña Book Design ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No Part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other—without the written permission of the publisher. Akdaan Literary Anthology is an imprint of Akdaan E-mail: grupongakdaan@yahoo.ca ISBN-13: 9 6 ('LJLWDO) Typeset in Caslon Pro & Perspective Sans Printed in Canada Proceeds from the sale of this book goes to Migrante Canada.

COVER ARTWORK: Bert Monterona, Migration IV, Acrylic on canvas tapestry, 188cm x 193cm, 2013 Title: AKDAAN is into baybayin ᜀᜃ᜔ᜇᜀᜈ᜔

translated script as

Cover Design: Christopher C. Sorio

bert monterona | Concert for Peace

Sa iyong paglalakbay Saan ka susuling, Saan ka pupunta? (Sorio/Cleto/Cabaña/Queaño) ii

Kaylayo ng paglalakbay upang mamatay Sayang ang itinalagang buhay Sa paghahanap ng buhay na maalwan Laging may puwang pusong mapagtiis Tatawirin, lalakbayin layo`y mararating Magbubuwis ng buhay sa kapalaran Kaylayo ng paglalakbay upang mamatay Sayang ang itinalagang buhay Makakaya nga bang magpaalam panandali Sa kahirapan dumayo para sa dayuhang salapi Paano nga ba ikukubli bawa’t luha at pighati Pangakong pagbabalik inaasam na pag-uwi Kaylayo ng paglalakbay upang mamatay Sayang ang itinalagang buhay Paano palalakasin ang nawalay, nanghihinang puso Sa bawa’t paggising, pag-ahon sa dalamhati ng pag-iisa Pinarubdob na mga namumutlang pangarap at alaala Maging ningas na apoy init sa lamig ng karimlang dala

Kaylayo ng paglalakbay upang mamatay Sayang ang itinalagang buhay Matiyagang paglilinang ng araw sa oras ng paggawa Lahat ay para sa minahal, nang di maisip na pinabayaan Pagbabata di na laging alintana buhay at alay sa tuwi-tuwina Kayong dugtong sa ibang-bayan tanaw ng aking pag-asa Kaylayo ng paglalakbay upang mamatay Sayang ang itinalagang buhay Sa isang saglit tumigil wari ang paggalaw, Napaurong ang dila dahil sa haplit na ginaw Hindi ng ulat-panahon, kundi ng pagpanaw Pangingibang-bayan ay paglalakbay na kaypanglaw Kaylayo ng paglalakbay upang mamatay Sayang ang itinalagang buhay Hatid ng kahong balikbayan ang kabalintunaan Laman ng pasalubong mga bangkay na katawan Panghihinayang pahatid hanggang sa huling paalam Bakit sa paghimlay pagdurusa ang kinahinatnan? Kaylayo ng paglalakbay upang mamatay Sayang ang itinalagang buhay Alay sa pitong kababayang nasawi sa dalawang aksidente sa Alberta Leduc victims: Eva, Archie, Romil and Rosalina; Rocky Mountain victims : Napoleon,Blessie and Ruben.

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bert monterona | Harvest

PAunang salita Foreword

a wakas ay isang kaganapan ang AKDAAN 2. Isang katuparan na maituturing ang makapagpalimbag ng isang aklat na sasalamin sa buhay at karanasan ng migrante. Hindi maitatangging ang araw-araw nating buhay at isipin ay kung paano mabuhay sa labas ng bansa at gayundin lalo na ay kung paano makapagpadala ng tulong sa ating mga naiwang pamilya. Naalala ko ang kwentuhan namin nina Tita Pet at Lui sa isang kapehan noong Enero 4, 2015 habang nirerepaso ang AKDAAN 2 bago ito ipadala sa limbagan. Naging laman ng usapan namin ang tungkol sa maleta. Nabanggit ko kay Tita Pet na dalawampu’t limang taon na pala ako sa Canada at naisip kong wala akong maleta sa mahabang panahon ng aking paglalakbay. Lagi akong naglalakbay nang walang maleta. Sabi ni Tita Pet wala daw akong maleta kasi hindi naman ako umuuwi sa Pilipinas. Hagalpak naman ng tawa si Lui na isang oras nang tahimik at walang kibo pagkatapos magkainisan at magkapikunan sa hintayan para magrepaso ng aklat. “Maleta ba o baggage?” tanong at sagot ko. Kahit na wala akong maleta, marami naman akong baggage na bitbit. Sa matagal kong pagkawala ay dala ko pa rin ang pagkasabik sa amoy ng pritong tuyo at ang inis tuwing makikita ang mga mata ng usyusera at tsismosang kapitbahay namin. Dala-dala ko pa rin ang paniniwalang marami sa ating mga kababayan ang umaalis ng bansa dahil sa kawalan ng pagkakataong mabuhay nang maayos at marangal sa sariling bayan. Ganito ang maletang bitbit ko sa paglalakbay—mga bagaheng hindi na humiwalay sa akin. Magpahanggang sa ngayon- sa loob ng dalawampu’t limang taon. Ganito ko ilalarawan ang AKDAAN2. Parang isang maleta rin marahil ang aklat na ito na tukoy at laman ang mga pananaw ng ating kababayan sa labas ng bayan na kawing pa rin sa bayang pinagmulan. Tinapik ng lungkot, inalo ng pag-asa ng pagbabalik at pinalakas ang loob ng mga pakikipagsapalaran sa ibang bayan. Sinalamin ng mga akdang nakapaloob kagaya ng tula, maikling kwento, sanaysay, drama, mga awit at guhit ang alaala ng paglisan at pagkakaroon ng bagong buhay at pag-asa sa malayong bayan. Sinuman ang makabasa ng mga tula kagaya ng “Always on the Move” ni Kay de Guzman, “Maleta” ni Esel L. Panlaqui at “Paglisan” ni Levy Abad, Jr. ay ramdam ang piglas ng pagbabalik sa sariling bayan Tinatanong natin palagi kung naging maayos ba ang buhay natin o mas naging mahirap sa pangingibang-bayan? Bagahe itong laman ng maleta ng ating paglalakbay bilang mga migrante. Paglalakbay na magpapatuloy sa kasaysayan at maipapasa sa memorya ng sumusunod na henerasyon na isinatinig at binigyang buhay sa mga akdang sumalamin sa danas ng pandarayuhan. Christopher Sorio

AKDAAN Publishing Manager Enero 21, 2015

FROM MIGRANTE CANADA Mula sa Migrante Canada

t is with great pride that Migrante Canada takes part in this literary project. For myself, it was a pleasure reading, not only the poems but also the stories of migrants. This anthology provides a glimpse of their lives - lives marked by separation, and suffused with the great longing to be reunited with their families. The contributed songs and illustrations reflect their realities. We see lives which are full of daily struggles for better wages, working conditions and uncertainty. We see the pain of being forced to leave their families and beloved country for the sake of a better future. We honor the migrants and artists who took part in the making of Akdaan 2 Akdang Dayo Literary Anthology. We are one with you as you strive to get your message of struggles and hope to the people of Canada and the Philippines! Marco Luciano Secretary-General, Migrante Canada Migrante International Global Council Representative for Canada

The Writer, Metamorphoses and Dreams By Petronila G. Cleto

n our first book, we offered the Akdaan anthology, not just a venue for writing, but as a context – in which Filipino writers can find their literary voice, whether they be migrant workers in a foreign land, or have undergone the legal transformation into immigrants and citizens of a foreign land. By context we meant a place to which writers can belong, because it is a place : of creativity, first of all; where there is a developing Philippine literature in countries outside the Philippines; where there exists a literature of, and about, the Filipino “diaspora”; where that literature is defining itself and discovering its originality as it is created amidst other cultures; where that literature finds commonality with other literature written by Filipinos in the Philippines as well as in other countries, and where a literature exists that may chart out its own journey into a “nationalistic” literature. When in Akdaan 1 we touched on the subject of language, English or Tagalog, or any regional language, we observed that writers who write in our languages in foreign lands seem to know full well that it is their unique duty to keep those languages alive, and above all, that it is their duty to enrich them. The wide variety of literary pieces that have reached us for this second book assure us that writers are responding warmly to this offered context, to whatever - or even all - the aspects mentioned that may interest them. We also received contributions from writers who have not even read Akdaan 1, but enthusiastically allowed us to include their work. They are writers of note, and one of them is Epifanio San Juan, Jr., a well-published author in North America as well as in the Philippines. Their enthusiasm speaks of the need for a community of readers as well as writers in order for culture to develop and for creativity to take place. Our theme of migration is one that touches all of the Filipino community in Canada, and we found it rewarding – as any reader would, we imagine - to find details of feelings and thoughts about the diaspora. It is very new, and very engaging, to encounter details of experiences in new surroundings – how moving furniture can be both be stressful and a matter of comforting camaraderie (Moving Furniture); the machineoriented flow of work in a factory (Canadian Experience); the gaze of a principal from another race (Delmar in the Principal’s office) and the attempt to capture the Tagalog-speaker’s delivery of English (A Letter to Ambrozic). What is exhilarating to see are the images developed to symbolize these, or to link or associate with fragility, discomfort, sadness,

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Introduction

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loneliness, otherness, anger and also being beleaguered, racism and discrimination. The variety of ways wielded by our writers shows their sensitivity towards the images of reality, and the awareness that creating art is essentially discovering meaning, and communicating that through a well-made relationship between image, feeling, thought and word. We need to give special comments about our deserving young writers. We have a number of vignettes from a younger generation, and we thought they should be grouped together as short narrative pieces. This way we can observe that, despite the shortness of their gaze at a certain piece of reality, their presentation of that experience shows how they create, with all skills they can muster, a landmark of that experience. Watch how they have developed images drawn from their experience into unforgettable banners of the territory they have realized, conquered or to which they have committed themselves. Capiz shells, ketchup, roses and thorns, cancer – these now have new associations. We also have essays by the young, who in 2008 wrote their thoughts about their new lives in Canada, when they were still recalling the past easily, and feeling great appreciation of the friendliness and community feeling of Filipinos for each other. They put forward their observations and opinions with honesty, are daring with their images (tree stumps, rerun of a TV series) – and we have a sense of them building strength in their voice as the next generation of Filipinos in Canada. For this book, it seemed fitting to put subthemes to our poetry collection: Looking Back; Here and Now; Borders; Dreams of Return and Taking a Stand. It is the only genre in this collection that we can show stages in everyone’s journey of migration, which would have been our ideal arrangement for all the pieces. If we could have shown those stages in all the genres, we could have had a book divided into subthemes instead of genres, and we would have reflected in this way the Filipino’s journey. With the poems being shorter pieces than those in other genres, there could be a number of pieces for each subtheme. Not all the stories, essays and even the songs would fall with ease into this kind of categorization, however, and so we realized that we may be able to do such an ideal arrangement only if we had opportunity to pick from contributions from over a year, or some longer period of time. That would be a possible project in the future. Nevertheless, we kept those subthemes for the poems, hoping that our readers could then appreciate the connections of poems grouped together according to a stage in the journey of migration. This book’s contributions bring several thoughts to the fore. First, that our circumstances have the potential power to change us. Literature has portrayed this to us over and over again, and has made us aware of the

AKDAAN Literary Anthology 2 importance of how we respond to this. The more aware we are of this fact, the more we know that it is not a mere mechanical change that happens, not a mere reflex or momentary reaction to the circumstance or event at hand. The change in us takes place as we struggle to take control of the circumstances. As we struggle to keep the values that have served us so well in the past, we find out whether the values are still functional, or are still important for us. Second, we realize that the change, the metamorphosis, happens because of us. No longer is it the gods who transform us, as in Greek mythology. It is a matter of our being able to decide whether, and how, we give in to the change that we think we are driven into, or continue to fight a change which we believe is towards an undesired direction. It is also a matter of the pace at which we are able to decide and take action. Finally, it is also a matter of our being able to remember the direction we want to go, and stay steadfastly towards it. It is already a matter beyond of “to be or not to be”. It is a matter of fighting to become what you want to become. The artistic pieces in this anthology show the various aspects of this dynamics between the migrant or immigrant in their new circumstances – which are very varied, in kind and intensity. Third, we are reminded that many migrant workers and immigrants begin their struggles with the feeling of forced exile, of going into a form of free fall, of bailing out of a doomed situation and taking the risks in a new place wherein there is hope that victory is always possible. One gain that such a situation brings is the alertness and constant examination of what is happening, and how it is affecting us – which are necessities. One drawback, on the other hand, is the feeling of helplessness, and then regret, that may come with realizing the price we have had to pay in order to have more cash in hand, and thus to afford to provide basic needs and material comfort for one’s family. And for one’s self – this should not be forgotten, especially for those who bailed out of the plane for the sake of the survival of loved ones. But even for the most helpless, there is one thing that effectively drives one forward: the dream. So we warmly welcome the reader in two languages once again – English and Tagalog. We trust there is enough in English for our English-only readers. This time, it is more apparent that the writers in this second anthology have each their own audiences, each their own generation of readers, or each their own mix of imagined kindred in soul – and their language follows their sense of audience. In effect, the editorial staff of this book have a perspective quite like that of the Host of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, to whom it is evident that the storytellers on the pilgrimage to Canterbury and the stories they tell represent a new

Introduction

and broad social structure. The wide variety of conditions that our authors and their works represent in this book gives us a rich display of characters in the process of change as they - Filipino migrants, immigrants and their descendants - struggle or settle in a foreign land. You may find, as we have, that the character of each author may be perceived through the piece that was created and is now presented here. Not only is that possible, but the added bonus is that we have a view, through a certain part of the journey of change the author has described, of that stage he or she is in. Despite our incapacity to do all the genres under subtheme headings, we hope the poetry section will be some kind of guide for this as you read on. We wish you an extraordinary metamorphosis!

PAg-aakda at Pangingibang-bayan Mula sa Akdaan

apursigi ang AKDAAN upang sundan ang unang limbag nitong aklat. Pakahulugan lamang ito na ang malikhaing pagsusulat ay masigla at buhay na buhay maging sa malayong bayan ng pananahan. Hindi matatawaran ang mga akdang kasama sa pangalawang antolohiya na humango ng iba’t-ibang pananaw, pakiramdam, tekstura, lasa, pagtingin at paniniwala na kaakibat sa pangingibang-bayan. Malaking pansin ang masigasig na pagsusulat ng bagong henerasyon ng mga manunulat na hinasa ng danas ng pangingibang-bayan. Ang salaysay sa mga maikling kwento ay kakikitaan ng masinsing pagtuklas hinggil sa paglalantad ng mga usaping kolektibong buhay at karanasan ng mga migrante. Mabisa ang kwentong bungad na Saving Tina ni Voltaire R. deLeon hinggil sa turistang Pinoy na nagimbal sa kinahinatnan ng babaeng itinangi upang maging isang biktima ng prostistusyon una’y sa kamay ng militar at kalaunan’y nagnais na lamang na makatagpo ng dayuhan upang mangibang-bayan at matakasan ang buhay na kinasadlakan. Detalyado naman ang paglalahad ng kwentong Moving Furniture ni Cesar Polvorosa Jr. upang ibahagi ng isang propesor ang pagkabigla sa danas ng bagong bayang pagdadalhan ng kanyang pamilya. Personal ang paglalahad at kunpirmasyon na hindi talaga biro ang mangibang-bayan. Naungkat naman ang lungkot at pananabik sa dagling Fragments ni Francesca Esguerra hinggil sa memoryang tinawid upang maalala muli ang kanyang Lola na matagal nag hindi nakakatagpo. Sadyang malaki ang nalilikha ng pagkawala upang punuan ang pagkakalayo. Samantala’y malupit ang sinapit na rasismo ng mag-ina sa dagling Ketchup ni Marion Mendoza na dumanas nang labis na diskriminasyon mismong sa mga kabataang kanadyano. May piglas at rubdob na hatid ang mga tulang sumalang dito halimbawa’y ang paglalagom ni E.San Juan, Jr. sa Balikbayang Sinta hinggil sa paglalagalag sa pagsasabing “Huli na raw ang lahat. Huli na, umalis na ang tren lulan ang gunita’t pangarap/Huli na, lumipas na ang kamusmusan ng balikbayang naglalagalag.” Tinalunton ng tula ang mga lugar sa mundo kung saan pamilyar na puntahan ng mga Pinoy gaya ng London, Hongkong, Los Angeles, New York, Canada at maging sa Europa. Lahat ng mamayan’y ay mistulang naglagalag na nga yata sa kung saan-saan upang sa “karampot na kita ay hiwalay naman sa pamilya” ayon sa tula ni Paulina Corpuz sa “Hindi lahat ay Lunti at Ginto” na siya namang isang bagabag na alalahanin ng “Always on the Move” ni Kay de Guzman na naglalagay ng kalituhan sa patutunguhan at kahihinatnan.

Perspective

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Ang Dalawang Kwento ng Pagpaslang ni Oya Mang-oyan ay paralelismo ng kamatayan ng isang caregiver at ng isang transgender na pawang biktima ng kawalang katarungan maging sa loob man o labas ng bayan. SaTraffic ni Ysh Cabaña tinalunton ang isyu ng human trafficking hinggil sa kalunus-lunos na sinapit ng isang nanny na si Leticia Sarmiento na pinagtatratrabaho ng walang bayad at mahabang oras ng among abusado sa paraang metaporikal gamit ang mga imahe ng lansangan. Sa mga sanaysay sinipat muli ng isang biktima ng tortyur ang malagim na kinahinatnan ni Chris Sorio sa Detention and Torture na ngayo’y isa nang aktibong organisador ng komunidad ng mga Pinoy sa Canada. Sinipat naman ni Rhea Gamana sa kanyang Separation, Migration and Resistance ang personal niyang mga pananaw bilang isang aktibista at anak ng isang caregiver at ang halimaw na dala-dala ng Live In Caregiver program (LCP). Dinala naman ni Daryl David na isang alagad ng siyensiya ang mambabasa sa Paris hinggil kanyang danas sa Un Apercu Global (A Global Overview) kung saan napaglimi niyang ang migrasyon ay pandaigdigang nagaganap at patuloy sa paglawak. Sa New Kid in A New Country ni Chloe Lopez ikinumpara niya ang pagbabalik pauwi sa isang lumang bahay samantalang sa sanaysay na Culture Shock ni Laurice Macaraeg nakagugulantang ang paglalahad ng karanasan ng bagong salta sa bayang kakaibang-kakaiba sa pinanggalingan gawi at kalakaran. Naiiba at hindi pangkaraniwan ang antolohiya ng AKDAAN. Hindi na lamang mga tula at kwento o sanaysay ang nilalaman nito kundi interesanteng may mga iba pang obrang kalakip sa antolohiyang ito. Para ka na ring nagbrowse sa computer tapos ayan matutunghayan mo na ang iba pang gusto mong basahin o makita sa koleksyon. Sadyang nagbabago na ang kalakaran. Bunga ito ng pagbabagong inilatag ng produksyon ng modernong panahon. Natatangi din ang tematikong bitbit ng antolohiya na siya namang binaybay at binitbit ng mga kasama sa antolohiyang ito. Kaya interesante ang antolohiyang ito sapagkat nagluwal ito ng dagdag na mga akda kagaya ng drama at koleksyon ng mga awit na tematikong ugnay sa buhay ng manggagawang migrante. Pansin ang paggamit ng modernong hilig ng kabataan sa rap na tinangka ng SouthEast Cartel sa Bangon Pilipinas, hindi nga ba’t ang rap ay maituturing ding akdang luwal na sining angkop sa makabago’t modernong kalakaran ng panahon? Lagi namang may hatid na naratibo ang mga awit ni Levy Abad, Jr. na hinggil sa buhay at danas ng mga migranteng manggagawa ay madadownload na sa Itunes at samakatwid ay may malawak nang layon at hatid, sakop at abot. Ang kanta naman ni Nalie Agustin ay patunay na laging may hagod at haplos ng lungkot ang paghihiwalay lalo na sa pagitan ng ina sa anak at

naisatitik sa wikang ingles na siyang wika ng paglalakbay. Paano nga mas maihahatid ang mensahe sa mas malawak na multitud kundi sa wikang gamit ng dayong bayan? Ito na nga marahil ang isang antolohiyang puno ng babasahin at kung naihabol pa nga sa deadline ang padalang komiks ay lalo pang makulay at masinsin ang pangalawang limbag ng AKDAAN. Hindi pangkaraniwang laman lagi ng antolohiya ang drama subalit dito’y nakaugnay sa iba pang obra. Kung bakit ay dahil tinalakay sa dramatikong paglalakap ang buhay ng mga caregivers na lalo’t napapanahon sa bagong patakaran at pagbabago ng Live-In Caregiver Program (LCP) ng gobyernong Canada. Sa dramatisasyon ng dulang Operetang Maynila malinaw ang guwang na nilikha bunsod ng paghihiwalay ng pamilya kapalit ang pag-aalaga sa anak ng kanilang amo. Kaya sa mga susunod pang paglilimbag ng AKDAAN laging may mga aasahang mga bagong putaheng dagdag. Mga malikhaing akdang siyang naging hininga ng buhay ng mga migranteng manggagawang itinaboy ng kahirapan sa kanilang bayang pinanggalingan. Kung kaya nga ba’t ramdam sa mga akda ang pagpiglas sa kinasadlakang buhay sa malayong bayan at ang pagnanasang bumalik sa bayang sinilangan kagaya ng mga tulang Maleta ni Esel Panlaqui at Paglisan ni Levy Abad, Jr. . Patunay ang mga akdang limbag dito na ang danas ng pangingibang-bayan ay hindi kailanman kahiwalay sa hikahos na bayang pinanggalingan. Binitawan ito nang masidhi at buong giting sa huling apat na linya ng tulang Panambitan sa Malayong Dalampasigan ni Ben Corpuz at dito’y sinisiping muli: “Dito sa malayong dalampasigan, dinggin yaong panambitan/ Magsuri, magkaisa /Palayain ang isip at alisin ang rehas/ Mag-organisa, magmobilisa tayo at makibaka/ Sindihan ang mitsa ng ating pagkakaisa.”

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nilalaman Contents

14 22 33 45 48 57

105 111 115 119 123 126 128 130

134 136 137 138 139 141 143 145 147 148

DRAMA | DRAMA Operetang Maynila | Alinor Ngayan Mga Kontribyutor | Contributors

152 196

Guhit At Larawan Illustrations and Images

Peacebuilder by Bert Monterona i Concert for Peace by Bert Monterona iv Juana, ang lola ko sa tuhod (Juana, my great grandmother) by Francesca Esguerra 4 Bagoba sa Mindanao by Bert Monterona 12 Pag may time: Basketball sa Jasper, Alberta by Chris Sorio 35 Transformation by Bert Monterona 44 Farmer on Carabao by Francesca Esguerra 85 Magsasaka by Francesca Esguerra 100 Striker on Jeepney by Francesca Esguerra 104 Katipunan by Francesca Esguerra 132 Stand by Me by Bert Monterona 150 And the Truth will Set you Free by Eric Tigley 198 Butiki by Bert Monterona 199

DAGLI Vignette

francesca esguerra | Juana, ang Lola ko sa tuhod ( Juana, my great grandmother)

Francesca Esguerra

Fragments

t felt very odd to be a stranger in a place I used to call home. I had sought the chance to go back to the Philippines for so long. Finally the wait was over. Faces, places and things from my childhood had only remained in my memory. Everything I knew from the past was novel once more. I was most excited about visiting my grandmother, my Lola Encarnacion, who lived in the province of Capiz on Panay Island known for its mother-of-pearl shells. I had never been to Capiz and I had not seen Lola for almost ten years. Lola and my grandfather raised twelve children. At the same time, she worked as a nurse at the local hospital. It was she who helped my parents around the house when I was born and my sister was just two years old. Having grown up in Manila, I rarely saw my grandmother but I do remember quite a bit about her. Lola stood 4 feet-9 inches tall. She dyed her silver hair jet-black and had perfectly-manicured nails all the time. Her room was fragrant with sweet perfume and talcum powder. In the mornings, Lola wore her plastic-framed eyeglasses while reading romance novels and whistling out air instead of tunes forcefully. In the afternoons she took a nap. Lola only spoke to me in English, and Bisaya that sounded like broken Spanish which I wasn’t familiar with. I was anxious to see Lola. I wanted to show off some Bisaya I had been learning from my mother. In the time we had been apart, Lola was diagnosed with senile dementia. I did not know what to expect when we met again face-to-face. I was hoping … waiting … looking … for signs of recognition. Lola just stared blankly in space. She responded in smiles and short mumbles. I introduced myself and she started to reminisce about me as a small child. When I hugged her, she simply responded, “It was nice knowing you.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There was truth to her words. At that moment, it felt as if we were nothing but acquaintances. We only knew fragments about each other. Lola’s memory was so fragile like Capiz shells along the beaches, pushed back-and-forth by the waves of the sea. From this encounter, I realized how distant I had become not only from my grandmother but also from family and friends in other parts of the world, especially in the Philippines. Space and time should not be

Francesca Esguerra | Fragments

a barrier in communicating and reaching out to them. It is not too late yet. Through “skype-ing”Lola and I could have connected and gotten to know each other better. I am able to do this with my cousins – gossip about school, work, frustrations, love and family. When time permits, handwritten letters and photographs have never failed to make my aunts and uncles smile. We begin to form strong familial bonds this way. Lola will turn 96 this July. Really old people sometimes turn lucid in their twilight years. How I wish I could be there when Lola does. And then perhaps, at that moment, we could still discover more of history and new things from each other.

Lola Grandmother Bisaya One of the languages in the central regions of the Philippine archipelago

Marion Mendoza

KETCHUP

o sweet and delicious. A Canadian staple. Ketchup, crimson red. I will never look at this condiment the same way. I was in grade 9 and I had just finished basketball practice. As usual, my mom was picking me up afterwards and would wait outside for me to hop in. It was never cool to have your mom hovering around the gym. This was a day she decided to hover. I was what I like to call an “angry teenager,” starting at about the age of 13- the kind that talked back, with a bad attitude and had dreams of being in a band, singing about how angry I was. But this particular day changed me. It changed the way I saw my mom. It changed the way I saw immigrants. It changed the way I felt about being Filipino. It changed the way I saw the world. I was even more angry after this day, but on a completely different level. As we walked back to the car, I could see them from afar- some kids I hated who were a year older than me. To be honest, I hated them because I was sort of afraid of them. They were the same kids who sang the song “Me Chinese me no dumb” to me when I was riding my bike when I was younger, maybe 10 years old or so. I despised them. Not only was the song offensive, but the singers couldn’t even get their Asians right. As we got closer to the car, I could see exactly what they were doing. They were spraying ketchup packets all over the back of my mom’s rear window. They didn’t care that we were standing right there- they just laughed and smeared it all over the window, singing, “me Chinese me no dumb, go back to where you came from.” Well, how clever of them to change the words. It still had the same affect on me and I was enraged, but I could not speak. Not one word. But, my mom yelled out, “F___ off! Stop that! Get away from there!” They finally ran off laughing hysterically. I was surprised because my mom dropped the F-bomb, but I was more surprised because she had stood up for herself. This woman- my mom who would ask us to order the pizza for her and pretend to be unable to speak English- spoke out. She spoke up and yelled at those kids with every force bursting out of her body. This is what it took for my mom to find her voice- to find the courage to speak out loud in her broken English. I could not believe it took a handful of ketchup packets squirted by some ignorant and uneducated kids to make my mom break out of her shell. And that is why I will never look at ketchup the same way.

Alexandra Dimaano

Everything has flaws; God made Roses with Thorns

arch 9th 2002. It was a dark, chilly, early morning. It was our last day in the Philippines. Our house was empty, but at the same time it was full of life. Friends and relatives came down to spend time with us, help us get ready and say goodbye. Before I knew it, it was time to leave. We made our way to NAIA airport. The sadness started to kick in when I watched my Lolo and Lola drive away. I clutched in my arms the pillow that my best friend gave me and I cried. It was sad, but I know it was more difficult for my parents. They were leaving their comfort zone, the place they have been used to all their lives. They were leaving their home, family and best friends behind, but they were doing it for us - a sacrifice of love. We have been here for six years now and we are stable, but it has not always been easy. Our family settled in a basement apartment for a while, because that was all my parents’ friends could find for us. We were okay with it because it was temporary. We thought our landlords were good people, but they were the opposite of what we expected. They had a daughter whom I thought to be a friend. One day, she came downstairs to hang out. All of a sudden her mood shifted and became rude. I did not understand why this happened. She started rambling and taunting me, acting like she was superior. She waved a broom in front of my face. She had the nerve to do that! What stuck in my mind that she said, “You’re never going to be able leave this place. You’re going to be stuck here forever.” She did not even know who we were, I thought, so she had no right to underestimate the abilities of my family. After six months, we left and moved into an apartment. Recently, I found out that she has been skipping classes and involving herself in unhealthy relationships. I, on the other hand, have goals in life. I have dignity. My parents, like all immigrants, had difficulties looking for permanent jobs. To support my brother and me, my dad and mom had to take advantage of every opportunity. They are very talented, skilled and intelligent people and it must have been hard for them to exchange work they enjoyed for mediocre jobs. Companies here do not accept people who do not have the Canadian experience, so it does not

matter what you did before. My parents struggled for a while, but they rose from their first job levels and currently work at Bombardier and Hitachi. Starting school here was a new experience. Its difference lay in the multi-cultural atmosphere but it just took a little bit of getting used to. I love the diversity! I used to be shy though and it took a while for me to get over it. I was insecure about bringing my lunch to school, because I would have rice and they were all eating sandwiches. I was embarrassed because they made fun of my nose and I did not like speaking our language in public because I was wary that people might think it was weird. Today, what is more embarrassing is for me to admit I felt and thought that way - it was ridiculous of me! Every culture has its own specialty, customs and traditions. Not everyone has to like it but if they are going to disrespect your culture and ridicule you then you do not need them around. Ignorance will just make them miss out on things. As I grew older, acceptance from others became the least of my worries. By the looks of it, others do not care either. I find that a lot of people here are very patriotic about their countries of origin. I wish more Filipinos were the same way about the Philippines. I have grown to appreciate my roots much more. It has a greater significance in my life. I love the Philippines and I miss it very much. To me, it is still home and it is beautiful. I get offended when people just point out the bad areas. Every place has a ghetto but it does not have to be what it is all about. Everything has flaws; God made roses with thorns. The beauty of the Philippines comes from its friendly and talented people, the liveliness of the cities and the God-given gifts of the Philippine islands.

Natalie Agustin

The diary of a 26-year old (Dear Cancer) 10

ear Diary,

Where has time gone? Having had breast cancer from the age of 24 to 25 feels like another lifetime ago. Now I am 26, and thanks to recording my journey for over a year now, it’s incredible to look back at everything I’ve been through in ONE year. Just comparing my pictures from my Pink Party Birthday fundraiser…I look like a completely different person. Well I guess being bald makes all the difference, but wow… I’m amazed by how things in life can change so fast! This year, I have so many things to be thankful for. For one, I’M ALIVE AND HEALTHY!!! To think that in July 2013, I had a slight moment where I didn’t think I’d even see another birthday. And of course, I am so grateful for the wonderful people in my life! Including you… yes you reading this! On top of my family and friends, there was always at least one of you, once a day, who read my blog and sent me touching comments or long heartfelt emails that made smile when I needed it most! You have NO idea, how much that helped. So before I officially close this chapter of my journey, I just wanted to say THANK YOU. Now at 26, I’m done fighting! This year is reserved to heal, explore and discover the world. And on Sunday, November 9th… I’m off to Asia! To do the trip I’ve always dreamed to do. And as stated on my bucket list, after “Beat Cancer” comes “Live my Dreams” and that’s exactly what I’m about to do. But as promised, I’m taking you guys with me! My biggest dream is to continue to inspire others by showing them just how beautiful life is! With or without cancer! I want to share my journey, so that others with illnesses and challenges can see… that there is HOPE to adversity. By being an example of something they can look forward to, I hope they never give up!

Before I move on to living my 26th year, I just have one more thing to thank… Dear Cancer, Weren’t you a shocking surprise! At 24 years old, I hated you… you took away my prime years of youth and fun. I never understood why you chose me? My body? My breast? Was it because I was doing too well? Did you have something against me? Well, sometimes things come into your life that you have no control over. You were one of them. I remember closing my eyes and praying that you were just a really bad dream. But nope, you were very real… and I hated you! But today, I would like to take the time to thank you. Thank you for choosing me and not any one else that I love in my circle of friends and family. Because we both know… I kicked your ass like no other. Don’t even try to deny it! Thank you for bringing me down to my lowest point in life, because thanks to you, in my 20s, I hit rock bottom… and from now on there is no where else to go but up! When you took everything away from me, like my strength, my hair, my breast, my fit body, my energy, my job and my nights out… you left me bare naked, with nothing left but my soul. And while you were stripping me away from everything, I was feeding my soul with life treasures you could never take away from me. Now, I am whole. Thank you for giving me time - time to do the things I really love to do. And for allowing me to discover the strong woman I never thought I could be. Thanks to you, I’ve gained such an appreciation for life, and this big trip to Asia that got postponed because of you, is probably going to be even more than if I went without you! So nice try on trying to ruin me! I’m so sorry you picked the wrong girl. But it’s okay, I forgive you. But I will never forget you. And I surely won’t miss you. So please, do me a favor, and stay away from my life. It’s time that I move on… Goodbye. Sincerely, Nalie

bert monterona | Bagoba sa Mindanao

MAIKLING KWENTO SHORT STORY

Voltaire R. de Leon

Saving Tina 14

he fort faces Basilan Strait, still threatening the vintas whose offwhite sails are raised like so many flags of surrender. It was still the quiet ancient that had always drawn Mario to its intimacy with people long dead, their spirits dwelling in the pores and crevices of the 300- year-old walls. Even now on this his first trip home, the empty battlements simply suggested soldiers no longer at their watch. There was another thing. Mario wished that on this solitary walk to the fort, he would chance upon Tina as if by accident. Since he arrived, he had hatched a self-appointed mission to save her because they say that she had become a whore. His aunt told him as much, ‘Ay, Tina. Never would I have thought that she had that in her. To be a pam-pam. And such a bright girl, too.’ But when he pressed the old woman for details, she told him to see Binay at the old tienda near the fort. Binay’s store had changed little -- a roadside cantina that served anything from pastries to quick meals. The customers sat on one long continuous bench at an L-shaped wooden counter, which ran the length and width of the store. Mario had only asked for coffee but Binay served him bibingka, waved away the customary protestations , ‘It’s not every day I get someone to visit me all the way from Canada and I’m sure you haven’t had a decent rice cake in a while.’ ‘I heard about Tina.’ Mario spoke to Binay in a monotone as if just making casual talk, touching the clip-on shades of his glasses to be sure that she could not see his eyes. But she traced the pitch in his voice because it was high and that means it was expelled from the throat, the lungs being tightened and breathless. ‘I used to serve you and Tina and some other kids your merienda. After school. When you were just teenagers. You know how I remember when that was so long ago?’ She offered him a Marlboro cigarette. Mario raised an open hand and shook his head. ‘You don’t do much except remember.’ Mario said and smiled. ‘Memorizing faces, especially if they owe you money.’ She dismissed the remark with a snort. ‘No. You and Tina were different.’ ‘Different. How?’ ‘Everybody else ordered for Coke or Royal Tru-Orange, but you two wouldn’t settle for anything other than Birely’s Grape. Messed up my inventory. The Birely’s man was always on my back for going out of his

way and delivering one, not the minimum three, not two, but one case of Birely’s Grape. That’s why I remember you.’ She lit a cigar and pushed a cup of coffee to Mario. ‘Were you sweethearts?’ ‘No. We were just friends.’ The old woman lowered her head as if to butt him and stared at him from under thick greying eyebrows. He thought she looked like some kind of a werewolf, the way her hair never fell off. He glanced at his watch, then at the tin roof of the carenderia and then at his coffee as he pushed the thick handle of the cup moving it in a circle, ‘But something else. You liked her, didn’t you?’ He turned to her with some vehemence. ‘Of course I did. She was my friend.’ ‘Just friends? No, no. You liked her. You wanted her. I know. I could see.’ ‘Oh, really? What did you see?’ ‘The way you looked at her?’ ‘How? How did I look at her?’ ‘You looked at her when she wasn’t looking.’ Mario pretended to admire the sunset to his left. ‘You imagine things ... must be the excitement from watching all those Vilma Santos movies. Friends, that’s all we were. Just like you and ... what’s his name ... Pino, the dock worker, right? ... Like, he used to come over here all the time to gossip. No romance there like in the comics. See? You were just buddies. It was like that with me and Tina. We were buddies.’ Nay Binay waited as he talked into his cup, as he tipped it, as he tipped his head like a rooster that had found something interesting just below its field of vision. She sat on the stool and rested her back on the wall. She crossed her left arm over her stomach, hand held in by her right elbow. She was rolling her cigar with her thumb and forefinger as she studied his unease.‘More coffee?’ She took a long pull at her cigar and exhaled slowly. He pushed the saucer away, the cup clattering on it. ‘Do you see her at all?’ ‘Sometimes. Over there. ‘ She pointed at a high fence hiding the veranda of the Seaside Hotel. Mario followed her gesture halfway. ‘She was there about a week ago around this time.’ ‘So. When did she become a...?’ ‘Cuando le ya queda puta? Just say it. Whore is not an unusual word.’ Binay prodded. Mario decided his silence might just dilute the fumes emanating from her. She continued. ‘A few years ago. Her father died in seventy-seven. Killed himself over gambling debts. They eventually lost everything: the car, the house, the land. They rented a small house just around the corner from here. Tina’s mother managed to get a vendor’s stand near the army barracks to sell rice cakes. Tina went there straight from the hospital.’

Voltaire R. de Leon | Saving Tina

‘She worked in the hospital?’ ‘She was an attendant. But it was at the stand that an army colonel took a liking to her. He started visiting. It was morning when he left her place. People made a joke about his whereabouts when they couldn’t find him at the base. ‘Where’s the colonel?’ One officer would ask. Another would answer, ‘The colonel? Out for a bite of Tina’s bibingka.’ Then they laughed. Later he would send his driver to fetch her and take her to his officer’s residence. It went like that for a year or so. Then all of a sudden it stopped. I was at the base one night because she asked me the favour of looking after the stall. I saw her go to the guardhouse. The guard was shaking his head. She rushed past him. He called after her, but she ran up to the colonel’s quarters. She was banging on the door. The door opened. I saw a hand grab her hair and pull her in as she cried out. Then the colonel stuck his head out of the window and called the guard. He told the man something and then shut the window. Later I saw three officers, friends of the colonel, come up to his place. They were there all night.’ ‘You didn’t do anything?’ ‘Uh huh ... and get shot, yes? I sat there at the stall. The only petrol lamp on the entire roadside still lighted. Before dawn, the door opened and Tina stepped out. She walked slowly, toes in like a duck, holding her bag to her chest. She looked up, saw me and stopped. I was already rushing to her. At first I thought she was laughing because I saw the white of her teeth, but she just stared at me, unseeing, all the time that I was holding her. I called a pedicab and took her home. God, what they did to Tina.’ ‘Why didn’t she lay charges against the colonel?’ Binay stared at him unsure of whether or not he knew what he was saying. ‘And who would she go to, the police? What would she tell them? That she trespassed into military property? That she forced herself into the officer’s quarters? You know what this town will say? Serves her right!’ She had turned white shaking with anger, eyes narrowed on him. His blood rose and burned where her words fell like thin lashes across his face. He looked at her and it struck him that this was now ten years after the fact. ‘Why are you angry with me?’ Mario asked, once more turning the cup in circles. ‘Because you didn’t do anything.’ She took the empty cup and put it in a basin of soapy water. She turned her back to him and began to wash the dishes and placed them on the rack. ‘I wasn’t even here.’ Mario pleaded when he found his voice. Binay stopped and spoke quietly. The tremor in her voice had subsided. ‘Fifteen years ago, I thought you would say to her what you really felt inside. I thought you were just shy. I said, ‘He’s young. He’ll grow up yet.

Another month and he’ll speak up. And I watched you, watched you say nothing. Then this other boy came along and sweet-talked her. You were finished. You sat there smiling your rubber smile as if you were all just friends. But people take what they can get for free. She waited for you to say something and when you continued with your skittering around like a drunken cockroach, she just gave up. One day you came here looking lost because you were drinking your Birely’s grape all by yourself. I couldn’t stand you. Then you went away to Manila and never came back. Tina told me she heard you had joined the PatrioticYouth, organizing demos against the American bases. She was proud, too. So when this happened to her, I kept thinking how different it would have been for her if one word of love was said by you. But even now you can’t say anything even close. All this advice on what she should have done. What about what you should have done?’ ‘There were looking for me, you know that. Besides, would that have mattered? Some other man could have made the difference.’ She let out a sigh, smoke trailing limply. ‘The fact is you went away. Fact is you let go.’ ‘Maybe, but I’ve returned and I’m still her friend no matter what.’ ‘A friend! You’re a goddam tourist. Alright. Go ahead, search her out. Save her. She’ll be there tonight.’ Mario was getting irritated with the old woman. ‘How do you know that?’ She made a thrust with her lower lip in the direction of the harbour and a kilometre beyond it, where a foreign cruise ship had dropped anchor. He slid off the stool. ‘I don’t remember it being so burning hot in here, Binay.’ ‘They cut down the trees.’ Mario walked home taking the side road that wound through the stumps of acacia trees along the now-brackish creek. Just as he walked up to the main road, a taxi went past and he caught the edge of someone’s neck and hair raised to a bun. For a moment the head turned to him and he gasped. The car slowed down and turned right. He followed the apparition through the trees, behind the wire fence of an empty lot, the makeshift zinc huts of squatters. The head skimming on the tall cogon turned left up the road to Seaside Hotel. Mario half-ran back on the path and cut across the cogon and slid between the wires of the fence. Up ahead, the taxi stopped. Tina stepped out into the withering afternoon. Her pink dress split above her knees and between her thighs whose colour of cinnamon for a while floated in his brain. Then she entered the hotel. He went through the entrance and sauntered left towards the veranda. He scanned about, eyes passing over the dozen or so people seated on the rattan chairs and finally stopping at Tina. She had already seen him and

Voltaire R. de Leon | Saving Tina

smiled. He went over to her. He had suddenly gone slightly deaf and heard his voice coming from a distance. ‘I saw you in the taxi.’ He wanted to kiss her cheek as was his custom but she seemed receded into her chair even though she had not moved but remained leaning on the table on her elbows, right hand with a lighted cigarette covering the left hand. He put his hand on her arm and pressed lightly. ‘Mario. How long has it been? ‘Two weeks now,’ he replied as he pulled a chair. ‘Fifteen years already, no?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ Finally understanding the question. ‘I meant that I have been here two weeks. I was looking for you.’ ‘Why?’ The smile was still there but her eyes darted off. The question caught him off-guard. He now understood why he did not kiss her. She wasn’t at all surprised to see him there as though she had expected him. But more than that she didn’t think anything special of it. Perhaps even offended that he had looked for her knowing that she had become, as they say, disgraciada. A party of tourists took the table behind him to the left. He looked over his shoulder. Three men in their late forties, sunburned, and something about the tone of their voices. Very sure. Very at home. As though they had just arrived at their cottage for the weekend. One of them had his leg slung on the arm of the chair. They were talking loudly. She was alert now, the muscles of her neck taut, balancing on an unseen wire. She looked over to them eyes flitting from one to the other. The man with the tattooed arm caught her eyes and had skipped listening to his companions. Tina relaxed and her eyes rested and still smiling took him in. Just then, a waiter came over, said something and the men got up and walked back to the hotel. ‘Aren’t they so conspicuous?’ Mario said. Tina dragged at her cigarette, twisted the butt into the ashtray and blew the smoke sideways. ‘So why did you want to see me?’ she said, the smile hadn’t left her. She was looking up at him. ‘Ah. You know how it is. You don’t see your friends for ages. You want to talk about old times. I’m sorry about tonight. I feel as if ...’ ‘Forget that.’ ‘...I had intruded.’ ‘Forget it.’ ‘I was talking to Binay just the other day ...’ ‘Binay, the tindera.’ ‘Yes, her. She still has her store near Fort Pilar. Just over there like old times.’ Mario told her how she remembered him and Tina best because

they were the only ones who ordered for Birely’s grape. ‘She’s changed. Very talkative. Not like before.’ ‘Yes. Not like before.’ She repeated. ‘Do you still write prose? You were very good at that, you know. And your drawings. They were always so beautiful. You still do that?’ She shook her head. ‘What do you do now, Mario?’ ‘I teach high school. In Toronto.’ ‘I heard you were in Canada. You should have gone to the States. Still, it’s nice there, I hear. You can make very good money.’ ‘Compared to here, I guess that’s true.’ ‘High school teachers, too, ha?’ She smiled once again. Mario laughed lightly, nodding. ‘You’ll like it there.’ ‘Your wife. From there?’ ‘Yes. From a small town called Timmins.’ ‘Children?’ Mario felt pinned to his chair unable to rise. ‘No. She didn’t want any. We divorced a few years ago.’ Her smile warmed him over and he had to look away. The waiter approached them and said that there was a phone call for her. Also, the bar was closing. Tina nodded him off and turned to Mario. She spoke as if a thick towel had covered her face. ‘I have to go now.’ ‘I thought we might talk some more.’ ‘Come see me tomorrow. Here, at nine.’ She patted his hands. Unaware, he had laced his fingers. ‘Okay.’ He said. He left the hotel, but at some distance he looked back and saw her get into a taxi. It hobbled off into the dark in the direction of the downtown core. His aunt knocked on his door early the next morning but he was already awake. The smell of sweet sausages frying on a wood stove had roused him from a shallow sleep. He hurried through breakfast, burning his tongue on the longaniza, and headed for Fort Pilar. A few dock hands were taking their coffee to their families who had gathered around the tree stumps for breakfast. He walked slowly trying to pace the heartbeat with his steps. A few minutes before the hour, he walked into the hotel. A man sat next to Tina. Mario recognized him as the tourist from the night before, the one Tina gazed at and who was now looking at him as if he were a sudden speck in a still horizon. They were each having a glass of pineapple juice. He said hello. They said hello. He took a seat. The man got up, excused himself, bent over and kissed Tina’s neck, and left. Mario listened to the man’s even, unfaltering steps. Tina looked somewhere, nowhere in

Voltaire R. de Leon | Saving Tina

particular, past Mario who was now breathing slowly, to ease a strange panic inside him. He started talking about how he remembered the place pointing out a few spots where things no longer were: the broken-up sea breakers, the ruin of an old colonial building, a whole row of acacias. Tina nodded remarking how good his memory was. ‘When you’re far away, that’s all there is.’ ‘It must disappoint you to see how much has changed.’ ‘It’s okay as long as people remain true to themselves’ ‘Well, people change, too. Don’t they?’ ‘Yes, but not much. At least not where it’s important.’ Tina laughed softly. She tapped the ice in her glass. ‘I thought you should know something.’ ‘What is that, Mario?’ ‘I missed you badly. The things we did together, then.’ ‘What things?’ ‘You know, we used take walks along Cawa Cawa boulevard after History class, remember? We read to each other. Our poems, Remember that?’ He tried sounding casual. ‘Oh.’ She laughed lightly. ‘You’re so sentimental.’ ‘I know what happened to you.’ ‘You do?’ ‘Binay told me. I don’t care what happened. I would like you to come with me, away from this place. You do want to come away from here, don’t you?’ Tina had turned pale. Small, red patches appeared on her cheeks. She looked at him momentarily and then away. She was tapping the ice again, but sharply now. Then she said, ‘I prefer the States. Mike has a ranch not far from Dallas. He’ll take me there.’ ‘Dallas, Texas?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I have friends there. With green cards. Married to Americans. I want to do that too. And I have to hurry. They closed down Subic and Clark. The bases, you know. Soon there won’t be any Americans left.’ ‘But we know each other better. All of high school.’ ‘Forget that.’ She laughed, ‘There’s no money in that.’ I will tell her now. It doesn’t matter, those years. Now I will tell her that there is a narrow street just west of Greenwood Park that will lead to a small Victorian house at the corner, semi-detached, with a green door. This home is hers to do with and so very far away from all this bitterness and I’ll be there. She’ll like it. She’ll like the spring when it rains. A leaf on the

edge of a wet iron banister will make you stop. It will be like it was before, when you thought out loud, about where this leaf came from, how it came to be the one chosen to fall on the edge of a black iron banister, how the surface of one and the other compelled the rain to come between them, and see, here, the sunlight on them promising an end hours away when things dry up and the leaf loses consciousness and slips away. You will make it all sound very technical but I could listen all day. And you won’t be alone. I won’t be alone. No, not at all. I won’t be alone. ‘Money, I can give you, you know,’ he rasped.’ And more ... a place of your ...’ ‘Mga blanco lang yo ta chinga!’ She did not shout the words which came out in a matter-of-fact cadence as though they had been said repeatedly over time, the rage in them eviscerated. She had fixed him with a stare and spoken quickly to cut him short. Everything around became very still as he tried to ease his brain into comprehending what she had just uttered, ‘It’s only whites I fuck.’ He could hardly breathe as if the air had been burned off its oxygen from too much sun or was strangled by the seaweed left to rot by the receding tide. He heard her say, ‘go home’, and then she was smiling again. The man had come back. The cab was waiting, he announced. He was in a hurry to see Pasonanca Park before the day was gone. ‘Sigue, Mario. Buen viaje ya lang.’ She said aloud. His name in her voice stayed with him for a while. They left. He watched her wrap her arms around the man’s arm as she spoke to him twanging her English so as to sound American. He stayed awhile going over that morning scene. When the waiter came over, he rose heavily, smiled and shook his head and walked out. He went straight to Binay’s. She was sitting on a stool, tired, varicose legs spread out underneath her sarong, smoking her cigar. He told her what had happened and then sat there for eternity trying to think, but all he could do was look at the fort. Binay looked at it, too. She said, ‘I hear the city has plans to have the place dug up and restored by real experts from Manila. It will look like it was during the Spanish times. For the tourists, you know.’ ‘I know.’ That was all he could say.

Voltaire R. de Leon

A LETTER TO AMBROZIC 22

e stared at it for hours, off and on. He went to the coffee maker and poured himself another only this time the coffee was too thick having stayed too long on the heater. He drank it anyway. Then he went downstairs to the basement, unlock the door to the storage room, locked it and sat before his son’s IBM XT, turned on the screen and watched the amber letters glow. Nobody at home used it anymore. Edmund had abandoned it (It’s history, Dad.) for the more upgraded model, the one with speakers and CDROM. So this one was abandoned and the screen stared at him sputtering bright amber as though he had ignited a little piece of hell itself. He looked away and at the phone. ‘I ought to give Ben a call. See what he thinks.’ But the red light on the phone cradle told him his wife Karina was still chatting away. He wondered how some people could talk on the phone for hours. He hated phones. After a while his ear would start pinging. He sighed, looked at the monitor and read it once again: Your Excellency, I beg your forgiveness for the effrontery of this letter for addressing your worship in a tone that is not appropriate coming from a simple parishioner such as myself to no less than possibly the future Cardinal of Toronto. We are a good Catholic family and have been for generations. Lately I have been disturbed by news that your excellency have made pronouncements that, if they turn out to be your words in fact, would make it difficult for me to remain silent since these pronouncements are worrisome to a religious family such as ours. It started at first with a Toronto magazine report about your excellency’s remarks regarding the immigrant ...’

The red light had disappeared. He picked up the receiver and called Ben. ‘Why worry over these matters?’ ‘But I really feel strongly about this.’ ‘Will you listen to me? It’s not your place, Eli. Let the parish priest take care of it.’ ‘Father Stefan hasn’t done anything about it.’ ‘Then maybe it’s not that important. Nobody cares what the bishop says anyway. People just get on with their lives.’ ‘You know, this thing he said about immigrants in Europe...’

‘Yeah. Yeah. The one in the Star. It’s bullshit!’ ‘It’s in the Star, too?’ ‘What d’you expect? It’s a Jew paper. They’ll do anything to sell the paper.” ‘I don’t know about that.’ ‘Look. I’m not anti-semenic.’ ‘Semitic.’ ‘Whatever. I mean, like, if this thing about Ambrozic is really that bad, don’t you think we would have told him already?’ ‘It bothers me. That’s all.’ ‘It bothers you? Lookit. You’re working for the city, for the planners, right? Nice cushy job, right? What’s to be bothered about? You should be right here in my jockeys. Got a birth certificate that says I was born here. Born here, brother. Put in my time, running cables for Bell. Ten frigging years, I gave them. You think they’d move me up by now? No. But that don’t bother me none. You’re my brother-in-law so I’m happy for you. But, man, I don’t know. This letter is, let me put it straight to you. It’s like biting the hand that feeds you.’ Eli fell heavily into silence, back into the time he was kneeling in the rain fixing a flat with his son and a car drove past splashing mud all over him and the man next to the driver looked back, grinned at him as he stared after the car, open-mouthed, rage rising to his head and he stood up and threw down the tire wrench, but still wordless because all the curse words in his head were in Tagalog and had momentarily forgotten the English ones and Edmund not quite ten, said ‘Say `Fuck you’, Dad. Say ‘Fuck you’ at him.’ He didn’t. ‘Alright, Ben. I see your point.’ ‘Now you’re upset. I made you upset. Forget what I said. OK?’ Eli replaced the receiver just as he realized that he didn’t wait for Ben to hang up first. He reached for the phone but stopped himself and turned to the screen blankly for he was thinking of Ben and the other members of their society, the Aspen Legion of Mary so close-knit they had made it a ritual to spend their Sunday afternoons together. It was Ester who took Karina and him to these gatherings. Being a private person, Karina’s heart was not in it but she went in deference to her Ate Ester who was older and who sponsored Karina to Canada. He had met Karina at her mother’s funeral. Mrs. Atienza was his history teacher, the only one he remembered well from his college years at the Lyceum. She had been especially kind to him, noting his interest in the subject though he only got a B from her. Karina had the same round forehead, round face and small almond eyes slanting sharply at the outer ends that squinted when she smiled, very high cheekbones and a short, pointed nose. Her face was darker, framed by jet-black hair with a widow’s peak and her mouth smaller. He thought of Edmund, how he had consumed his mother’s looks except for the wide forehead. When he was born, he gave such

Voltaire R. de Leon | A Letter to AmbRozic

a cry causing, Eli insisted, all the lights at the Wellesley Hospital to flicker. The friends suggested to the proud parents that it was a good sign, the boy would become a great personage. Eli and Karina put away some money for his college and would lie awake nights imagining Edmund’s future as lawyer, professor, doctor or anything else that they themselves wanted to be. He turned to the screen and with sure strokes he hit the keys to delete the letter. The letter remained on screen. Eli leaned back, closed his eyes for a second and looked at the screen again. He hit the keys one at a time. No effect. He got up to make more coffee. Coming back, he saw the screen flicker and scroll. ... regarding the immigrants; and from the tone of your responses, you wish nothing less than their extermination. You would want them wiped off the map of white Europe and North America, you archetypal race hater. Yours, Tamblot.

Eli’s body stopped with a jolt spilling the hot freshly-brewed coffee all over the keyboard. He fell to his knees, grabbed the adapter and pulled the cord right off the power bar. He got up and hit his head against the doorknob that drained the light in his eyes. Through the shifting, grainy cloud of perception, the screen emerged as before, very alive. The cursor throbbed like the pain in his head. Eli backed out of the room, felt a loss of gravity and sailed up the stairs. ‘Your hands are shaking,’ Karina observed as he poured himself a glass of water and spilled some on the tiles. ‘What is it?’ ‘Who’s Tamblot?’ ‘Tom who?’ ‘Tamblot. I’ve heard this name before from somewhere. I don’t know. From one of the college courses , I’m sure.’ ‘Which one, Literature? History?’ ‘History! Yes, that’s it. In your mother’s class.’ ‘ Is he a classmate of yours?’ ‘No. He’s from the past, our past. Maybe Tamblot was a tribal chief. ’ ‘I don’t understand you. First, sit down.’ He sat down. ‘You look terrible. As if you’ve seen a ghost. Now tell me.’ As he told her, she became the nurse at St. Michael’s checking on the patients at the geriatric ward, listening to family secrets that made the room a confessional. She took him back down to the basement but the screen was off. Eli turned it on. Remembering he had pulled out the power cord, he plugged it in and switched the computer on. He retrieved the file ‘Ambrozic’. ‘File not found’, it said. Footsteps upstairs.

‘That’s Edmund. Let’s go have dinner. Okay?’ Karina tugged at his arm. He hesitated wanting to try again but she pushed him and up the stairs. Edmund was setting the table, cradling the phone with his left shoulder. ‘It’s Tita Ester.’ ‘I’ll call her later.’ Eli said in English. Karina and Eli had both attempted to speak to him in their mother tongue but the boy had always quite unconsciously shifted to English then reverted to Tagalog as soon as he realized he was at home. But over the years, English began to predominate as the couple realized that it took pressure off the boy especially when he tried to explain school stuff to them. Now the two of them mostly spoke Tagalog when they were alone or with the other nationals who immigrated to the country. Their English took a turn, too, as Edmund succeeded in making them pronounce ‘f ’s and ‘v’s, failed with the ‘th’s, all of which didn’t exist in Pilipino. He gave up trying to extend their vowels beyond the short ones. Strangely enough, Edmund had of late stopped the impromptu English pronunciation lessons and begun to relish throwing remarks in perfect Tagalog just to surprise his parents. He had also become sullen towards his Tita Ester who always spoke more English than Tagalog even with Eli and Karina. Once when Edmund asked her why she speaks English all the time, she had replied, ‘We’re in Canada now. If you want to succeed, you must speak English all the time.’ ‘She wants to talk to you now.’ ‘He’ll call her later, Anak.’ ‘He’ll call you later. No, I don’t know. He hasn’t sent it yet, I don’t think. He’s still in his shorts and tee-shirt. He can’t. He’s in the bathroom. No. Mom just went up. Yeah. They’re in the bathroom together, okay? Taking a shower, I don’t know. Tita, I gotta go. He’ll call you later. Bye.’ ‘It felt real, Karin.’ ‘Wat happened was you fell asleep and dreamt the whole ting. Maybe you should really just forget the letter. Forget Ambrozic.’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Edmund, ‘I kinda like it.’ ‘Why do you like it?’ said the father. ‘I just like it. That’s all. Like, you’re taking a stand, Dad.’ ‘But you know how religious your Dad’s friends are.’ ‘I know. They’re fanatics. That’s why …’ ‘And so loyal to Father Stefan who, by the way, knows Ambrozic personally. I think the monsignor attended his ordination.’ ‘Dey really don’t want to cross him.’ Eli added. ‘And your Tita Ester. How can she accept dis? Her own brother-in-law, a shit disorder ...’ ‘Shit-disturber, Dad. But that’s cool, don’t you see? See, priests aren’t always right and Tita Ester needs to be told that.’ Karina let out a sigh. ‘Ay, Anak, you don’t know wat you’re saying. She’s practically a fixture at St.Anthony’s. Indispensable. Even for the funeral, Fr.

Voltaire R. de Leon | A Letter to AmbRozic

Stefan always chooses her to look after ...’ ‘Why are you always, always, on her side?’ ‘’Edmund.’ ‘No, Dad. Why can’t she be on your side this time?’ ‘My sister and Tito Ben got us here. And we don’t want to cross dem out of our debt of gratitude to dem, d’you understand? ‘He’s not my Tito. He’s just Ben.’ ‘Wat is wit you? He’s your uncle.’ ‘How much more do we owe them, Mom? It’s been, what, a hundred years Isn’t there some statute of limitations to this utang na loob. You don’t ever say ‘no’ to her. She makes you wear that Legion of Mary medallion even though you don’t like displaying your religion. She brings her dinuguan and it’s lousy, but you eat it anyway to make her proud. She brings stuff in like that stupid porcelain cat with a clock in it.’ ‘I like dat clock.’ ‘So why d’you hide it in the cupboard? Tomorrow morning before she comes, you’ll put it there on top of the piano. Just to please her. How far does this gratitude go?’ ‘Edmund. Wat’s gone to your head dat you’re talking to your mudder like dat? Ha?’ But inside, Eli was smiling. ‘I’m sorry, Mom.’ He looked at Eli. ‘Can I go now?’ Eli nodded. The boy pulled away from the table, grabbed his jacket and stopped at the door. He looked back. ‘You need help with the computer, Dad? I’m sure I can find the letter somewhere in that disk.’ Silence. ‘You are sending that letter. Aren’t you, Dad?’ ‘I’m tinking ... We’re tinking about it.’ Eli meant to say ‘no’ but he was listening to his son’s heart. Edmund looked out into the darkness, then left. Karina wiped a tear as she ended Chapter Five of Harlequin’s Return of Adam Bree. The doorbell rang . She looked out and saw Ester already turning the knob and pushing the door open. Inside, she glanced at Ester briefly and asked for Eli. She looked agitated, maybe even angry. Karina put the book down quickly and headed for the kitchen, her steps softening as the unusual quiet of the house pulled her back. She called out for Eli. No answer. She skirted the kitchen and called Eli’s name down the basement stairs. There were no lights in the basement. Just then Eli appeared at the foot of the stairs, the light from the kitchen thrown at him severing his head and Karina saw his face emerging from the darkness, surfacing from a night dive in the lake. He was smiling. ‘Dumating na si Ate Ester.’ Karina announced the sister-in-law’s arrival. Eli just nodded. ‘It’s Saturday, Eli.’ The woman walked into the living room inspecting

the walls for something new. ‘So it is. Bising-bisi ka siguro, Ate.’ Eli cheerfully replied. ‘Where’s your son?’ ‘Edmund’s going out wit his girl tomorrow to some hiking ting.’ ‘Same girl?’ ‘O’o.’ Same girl. Winnie. Is dat okay wit you, Ate?’ ‘He’s young. He should also meet da girls at church, don’t you tink? Ben‘s getting da brods to organize a dance por da young people. ‘I don’t know. He seems happy da way it is now. Magka-bibes sila’ ‘Well, I’m just his aunt. But I’d raised two kids op my own and it’s always good to know wat kind op pamily deir prends heb. Because you never know ...’ ‘You really didn’t come here to talk about Edmund, did you?’ ‘No, just making conversation. Tomorrow’s Sunday and I wanted to make sure you bring dat new Hibachi. Der are bisitors from Detroit coming.’ ‘I’ll be busy myself tomorrow.’ ‘Aren’t you coming? Ben and da group will be der.’ ‘Not dis time.’ ‘He is. I should know...’ ‘No, Ate. I mean, yes, Ben’s coming, but I’m not. I’m busy. Maraming gagawin.’ ‘Doing what?’ ‘Letters. Bills to pay. Calls to make.’ ‘Is dat all? Do dat some oder time.’ ‘No. You do wat you heb to do. Karina and I will be home all day.’ Karina, also? Look. Ben and I expect you der as usual so just porget dose tings. Okay?’ ‘Ester. We won’t be der. We will be here all day today and tomorrow. Alright?’ ‘ I don’t like your tone.’ ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to be clear.’ ‘You’re making it hard for me to explain to Ben. He’ll be looking por ...’ ‘Fuck him.’ Her gasp was audible all the way to the kitchen where he had gone to drink from the tap. The awful word felt to Eli, who had all his life limited his curses to `punyeta!’, `lintik’ and `sanamagan’, like he had just that moment closed one nostril and blew mucus out the other all over her baby blue dress. The initial white of astonishment on her face gave way to blotches of red as her anger rose over the stained blouse. `Aba! Wats da matter wit you. Nagpa-puck -puck ka na ngayon? And to Ben pa, my goodness, you been prends all dis years now you puck him op like der was nutting. Did you pight last night ober wat he sed someting about dis letter to Ambrozic I don’t know wy you will write and pight and not come to mass like we always do as a pamily

Voltaire R. de Leon | A Letter to ambrozic

and all op a sudden you don’t want to see your prends anymore, are you seeing some oder people already? Wat will happen next? No more birtdays and picnics and barbecues like we always do por godssakes we heb prends and social tings like you cannot just go and disappear wat’s going to happen to me. Wat will dey tink op me dat I’m speaking der da word op god and my own broder in law is making sacrilege against da monsignor just because op some stupid immigrants making trouble in Europe and not eben in Canada because we Pilipinos are not like dis blacks who are criminals so now you want to destroy our image like dose stupid Pilipino kids in Scarborough shoplipting wen we’re always law abiding and clean. Wat did I do to deserb dis? Eberybody’s looking up to me and here you are you can’t eben control your own son going out wit dis girl prom wat kind op pamily I don’t know dat’s libing in Parkdale wit all da drugs and all da prostitutes. How can you do dis to me? You owe eberyting to me, to Ben who sabe my lyp and my children ip not por him dey’ll be displayed wit Sally Struters on t.b. wit dat smokey mountain, how pitipul naman. Ben and I brought you here and ip not por Ben you will not be enjoying lyp in Canada. and da car and da house and da CNE , da Harbourpront. Centre Island. Look how clean it is here not like Manila wit all dos poor people and criminals and kidnapping and ... I got you here ,don’t porget dat , walang utang na loob, wy dont you listen to me. Karin, Karin. Tell dis husband op yours to stop all dis stupidity. You know dat my Sonya’s hebing her debut and all da people I’m inbiting including da mayor and eben da Monsignor himselp por godsakes because Pader Stepan knows him in person and now your husban’s writing dis ebil letter wat ip because op dat he doesn’t come. I already spent all my bisa and mastercard on dis ting? Do you want dat to happen to your son on his graduation and none op our prends will come to da party? ha? How would you peel, ha? ... Talk to me porgodssakes almighty. Nasiraan ka na ba ng bait? Wy are your writing da bishop let me read da letter let me read it let me se wat craziness you are up to nasiraan ka na ba ng bait? Wat’s da matter wit you? Dis is not you talking. I know. Karin was telling me you spend a lot op time in da basement Wat are you doing in da basement? Some ebil tings in da basement. I’m calling Pader Stepan…’ ‘Fuck him.’ ‘Susmaryosep! Pati na ba ang pari pina-puck mo? He baptised your children. How can you say dat to him? Wat dirty word you use, puck, puck, puck. Now I’m saying it. God porgib. I’m saying dirty tings. Wer’s da letter let me see, let me see …’ Then she cried and reached for the phone. But already he was gone,

stamped envelop in hand for all the while she was hysterizing, he had gone back down to the basement, hard-copied the letter, enveloped it, ran up to their altar where they keep the stamps in a little next to the Infant Jesus of Prague. So there he left her, collapsed in the chesterfield, one of her presents to Karina now sitting next to her, smiling, Eli was sure, smiling amusement rather than sympathy although there was a little of that in the cooing tone she played at disparaging him, excusing him with hints at his possible mental illness, ‘Pasensya ka na dyan kay Eli . Medyo may kunting katok. Hayaan mo at kausapin ko siya mamaya. May prinsipyo kasi yan taong yan. Hindi mo maalis sa tigas ng ulo.’ Eli on the flagstone halfway to the curb stopped, considered the letter and went back into the house. ‘I’ll tink a little more about it.’ Eli said to his sister-in-law. She sat up, blew her nose and said, ‘Wy don’t you just gib me da letter and I’ll show it to Pader Stepan and den we can talk about it later ?’ ‘Sure. Here.’ Eli handed her the letter. Then they said their goodbyes. At Karina’s urging, Eli, Edmund and she attended mass. Father Stefan officiated and gave the sermon of the Prodigal Son. `God forgives the most sinful amongst us for no matter what. If the prodigal returns full of remorse, he is the more precious. Our blessed Mother does not worry over those of us who are faithful to His word, who honour her with our offerings, for our places are secure in the Lord’s House. But you yourselves know of the brother who spurns the family because he wants to be the first or he thinks he knows better and derides the wisdom of his father and mother. He’s the one who leaves and curses the family because he can’t get his way. Then one day he hits bottom. And I don’t mean just the material things, because he can have his house, his car, his job and still not be happy. Something is missing in his life and that is the love of his family. It is the most difficult thing to do, to admit that one has done the wrong thing, to overcome pride and to re-enter the house of the Lord with humility. And if your brother does that, all of us who have been saddened by his absence will rejoice.’ Karina thought that she had become deaf . The silence, though not unusual, had the peculiarity of having weight. It wasn’t scattered like thoughts of a bored congregation running in different directions. Their thoughts took the shape of a cone and the end of the cone pointed to her right, at Eli. Fr. Stefan, his sermon done, gave a brief glance at him and flushed purple for Eli was smiling, deep in reading the Sunday Comics between the pages of the Catholic Register. She saw Ester staring sparks down at them from the West podium. Instinctively, she held Edmund’s right arm, drew him closer to her, and looked at the floor in front. Those who shared in the conspiracy believed that she had bowed her head in shame. Several men found her beautiful just then and longed to find her

Voltaire R. de Leon | A Letter to ambrozic

alone and abandoned by the prodigal husband very soon or independent after she would leave him for the arrogant jerk that he was so they could visit her, console her and bed her, making sure first of all that her son was away in university. As usual, Karina stayed a while to say additional prayers for her mother who passed away years ago. She was certain that she was still on Earth not wanting to leave, her reading of what she related to Eli as the ‘Blue Grass Happening’. Ester was the only other person she told it to not because others might think her crazy. A visit from a ghost is a common enough story. She kept the experience like a family heirloom. and nobody else’s business. She used to feel her presence often: in the kitchen when she was preparing dinner when Eli was still on his way home, in the washroom where she retreated with a new Harlequin romance, in the living room as she sat knitting another sweater for Edmund. Her nostrils instantly flared to the scent of the old woman’s Blue Grass perfume, not permeating the entire air, but luring her to a specific space where it was strongest. There, Karina said a prayer and asked he mother not to frighten her and the scent would fade away. Now, her mother visited her rarely and Karina was convinced that her pleas to the Blessed Virgin to lead her mother through the gates of Heaven were taking effect albeit slowly so that the shock of finally leaving Earth would not be too much for the old woman. When she exited into the white sunlight, she saw Ben and two other guys of the confraternity Legion of Mary approach Eli. Father Stefan had just finished exchanging pleasantries with a couple at the main door and, accompanied by Ester, was now walking towards the men. Ben standing a half a foot taller than Eli rested his hand on the edge of the car roof above Eli’s shoulder and leaned over him in such a way that Eli had to look up at him as he spoke, his other hand rammed into his side. Eli had crossed his arms talking back evenly. Edmund stood at his father’s free side looking at Karina as she approached them slowly. Father Stefan smiled, stopped in front of Eli blocking Karina’s view of her husband. With a small gesture of his left hand, the priest waved Ben away who pushed away from the car and turned his back on Eli to huddle with his two Filipino companions who were smiling and shaking their heads alternately. Ester behind and to the right of Father Stefan looked agitatedly from Eli to the priest listening to their exchange letting out exasperated huffs whenever Eli spoke. ‘A little humility, Eli. Those things you wrote about. All very tragic, granted they are true, but they got nothing to do with us now, has very little to do with the Archbishop,’ the priest said. Eli looked straight at him and shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. It has

everyting to do with us. Not you. Us.’ Karina went around to the passenger side of the car. Without looking at anybody, she said, ‘Edmund get in da car. Eli?’ Eli opened the driver’s door and said, ‘Excuse us.’ Father Stefan turned sharply to Ester who instantly shouted through the window at Eli but he couldn’t hear anything. ‘Who d’you tink you are, ha? You tink you’re better dan Pader Stepan here, better dan us, better dan eben his grace? You’re putting me in a bad light. All da work I did por you, por your pamily.’ Above the car roof and at Karina, she said. ‘I brought you here por wat? You poor woman. Op all da men in dis country, you had to marry dis idiot from god knows wer, he was only interested in your passport, ni walang utang na loob. ’ A sheet of ice descended on Karina’s head. She walked around the car with quick, deliberate steps. Eli saw Ester’s face turn pale as her eyes followed Karina . As though her hand continued her steps, she brought it up swiftly in a fist and hit Ester in the jaw with a force that lifted the woman off the ground and into the arms of Father Stefan who in turn fell on the gravel. She walked back, got into the car, removed the Legion of Mary medallion from around her neck , unrolled her window and threw it out. A particularly vicious sun had been torching the flat neighborhood of Aspen Mills, dried up the uniform front yards.Trees were immobilized, the air distorted by thermal heat, the road cooked so that Eli’s reeboks pulled the melting asphalt like cheese from a piping hot pizza. He got to the mailbox, pulled out the letter and dropped it in the slot in one movement. Turning around , he blinked at the suburban row of semidetached, three-story neo-Victorian fabrications and recalled how from the plane , a subdivision looked like minute domino rectangles of green grass, brown or grey roofs and occasional blue for swimming pools, neatly arranged in semi circles , spirals or mostly in just plain grid. The street to his house had suddenly lengthened. He went to the garage, took his son’s bike and headed for the park where Karina and Edmund would be waiting at the bench not far from the duck’s pond. Of the time he spent in the basement writing the ten-page letter he had little recollection. All he knew was that it accused the Spanish friars of three hundred years of crimes against the Filipinos: rapes, landgrabs, slavery, brainwashing, burning down of sacred places, outright murders. He remembered wanting to get up and leave for the Metro Reference Library and there combed the stacks for harder and more detailed historical data. But he couldn’t stop writing until gradually he no longer cared where on Earth the crimes took place or when. The thoughts seemed to be sucked out of him through his fingertips and relayed onto the screen. There they took shape, cat’s eyes in a pitch-black cavern. He

Voltaire R. de Leon | A Letter to ambrozic

felt them all coiled-up, and he unwinding them, taut copper strings of remembered stories that spun out of a continually purring molten stuff. His family had laid out dinner on a mahjong table. The hibachi grid was still burning fat but Karina was already scooping a dessert of Magnolia ube ice cream from its plastic container. ‘Sorry, Dad. We couldn’t wait.’ ‘’Tsokay.’ He helped himself to pancit and chunks of grilled pork. ‘So it’s done.’ There was a spell of quiet. Husband and wife remembered their friends, felt sad and alone all of a sudden. Karina pulled Edmund to her, embraced him for the warmth as a strong scent of Blue Grass enveloped them. ‘Mom. Dad. Take a look at this.’ Edmund pulled a book from his backpack. Eli took it and read the cover, A Past Revisited by Renato Constantino. ‘ My God. Dis was our history textbook, da one your lola used. Karin, look.’ Eli pulled her to his side. ‘Read the page with the bookmark.’ Edmund sat on the picnic table brightfaced watching his parents turn to the page. In 1622, a babaylan or native priest named Tamblot reported the appearance to him of a diwata or goddess who promised the people a life of abundance without the burden of paying tribute to the government or dues to the churches if they would rise against the Spaniards and reject the Catholic religion, go to the hills and there build a temple. Two thousand Boholanos from four out of a total of six villages supervised by the Jesuits revolted. They burned the four villages and their churches, threw away all the rosaries and crosses they could find, and pierced the image of the Virgin repeatedly with their javelins.

utang na loob debt of prime obligation dinuguan pork blood stew

Kay de Guzman

THE OBSERVATION OF A SOUL

iana watched her father perform a layup. “Look how easy it is! Aim for the backboard and it’ll go in every time!” her father said as he threw another one. Later, he passed the basketball to her. Glancing at the hoop, Diana mentally reviewed his steps and attempted to do the same. It was the weekend and save for the three of them – Diana, Ate Denise and their father – Diana wanted to bring Baby Danny along but he was too young to move with coordination although he was presently able to run. The weather was pleasant enough and despite the sky being painted a muted shade of gray, the threat of rain was non-existent – excluding Baby Danny’s tears as he realized they were leaving him behind at home with their mother. Rain or shine, the mood of the sky in the suburbs, among many other things, was always subdued. In the distance appeared a lone boy on a bike. As he approached closer, Diana could see that he was very aware of them. When he reached the perimeter of the court he got off his bike and laid it down on the misty grass. The boy was around Diana’s age and most likely, in the second or third grade. She had never seen him around at her school before. As he threw his tennis ball against the school’s brick wall, his shaggy dark blonde hair bounced about with his effort. Not long after, the boy stopped. Softly gripping the bright yellow-green tennis ball splattered with dirt, he deliberately stepped towards them. The boy watched her father as he took another shot. Finally putting aside the tennis ball, he asked, “Can you dunk?” Being a man with a sturdy build but short of stature, her father was amused by this. Graciously, he said, “No.” He dribbled a bit, jumped a little higher and landed another shot, layup style. “Can you do a layup?” he countered. “Let me try.” He passed the ball to the boy. With their newfound friend, they pretended to be NBA basketball players. Ate Denise quickly claimed the name Michael Jordan while the boy was cool with Scottie Pippen. Her father went classic old school and decided on Larry Bird. Since she was too late in claiming her favorite player, Michael Jordan, Diana grudgingly accepted being Kareem Abdul-Jabbar upon her father’s coaxing, saying he was a legend. There were no teams and no rules. It was every man and child for himself and herself. Ate Denise ran up and down the court with her lanky arms open. She was good at stealing the ball and landing jump shots from a distance. Meanwhile,

Kay de Guzman | The observation of a soul

Diana concentrated on control while dribbling. Her coordination was a bit off and she struggled with a lack of grace but managed to score a couple of shots when close to the basket. Dribble, dribble, dribble. Swoosh! “Daddy! Daddy! Did you see that? I’m getting good at this!” Diana grinned from ear to ear. Her father trotted up to her, got down on one knee and raised his arm to give her a high five. “That’s my girl!” In contrast, the boy was a surprising hit. His appearance hinted at a delicate constitution because he was rather slight and thin. However, when he was in motion he was fluid like a stream of water. Her father had clearly taken a liking to him. “Pippen, I’m open!” Diana and Ate Denise were both blocking the boy. He looked at them as if he were surveying a battlefield. Left arm outstretched forward with body leaning to the right, he steadily dribbled. Without warning he stepped backwards, maneuvered around the girls, and passed to their father who straightaway positioned himself to do a layup. “Nice assist, Pippen!” “Thanks,” the boy said softly. He dribbled lazily in a stationary position. His gaze darted curiously from person to person until it landed directly on her father. “Are you the janitor at this school?” Diana wanted to see her father’s eyes but he had already away. She looked in Ate Denise’s direction, but she was too far to have heard anything. Her father was silent for a moment. After a sharp inhalation of breath, he muttered, “No, I’m not.” No more discussion after that. The game soon ended but the lightheartedness that was there not too long ago was gone. The boy got back on his bike and off he went. Diana had wanted to tell the boy that it was not her father who cleaned this school. It was Mr. Reyes. Her father often spoke with Mr. Reyes as he picked her up from school. Diana would quickly lace up her shoes and collect her things because she wanted their interaction to be as short as possible. In order to avoid association, she would stand outside the door peering in every few minutes to see if he was done talking with his pare. There was no blood relation between them nor had they known Mr. Reyes before she attended that school. Yet when they talked the camaraderie between the two men came across as if they had known each other for many years. Again, it was not her father who cleaned this school! It was Mr. Reyes! It was Mr. Reyes who scrubbed the toilets and mopped the floors. It was Mr. Reyes who danced up and down the halls to the jingle of the village of keys

christopher c. sorio | Pag May Time: Basketball sa Jasper hanging on the belt loop of his light-washed jeans with his vacuum trailing behind like a faithful dog. It was Mr. Reyes who smiled with an inhuman frequency that his plump, wide face resembled a joker. It was that same Mr. Reyes who always seemed to reserve an extra smile for her and her sister, all because they were the only students at that school who were also from the Islands. Finally, it was Mr. Reyes that she avoided because she did not want other kids to think he was her father just because they had skin a similar shade of brown. History had almost occurred without the presence of her father who was stuck at work. Ring, ring, ring! Diana ran to the phone. “Who won?”her father got straight to the point. “The Mailman delivered today.” A click of the tongue occurred on the other line. It was game 5 in the NBA finals and the Chicago Bulls lost to the Utah Jazz. The great Michael Jordan was retiring that year. Diana hoped his great career would finish off with a bang with a legendary six championships to his name. “It was a good game. Malone worked hard. He scored close to 40 points.” “Well, the Bulls are still leading the series, so it’s ok. It’s good to give the Jazz a chance. Actually, Malone is very good. It keeps things interesting.”

Kay de Guzman | The observation of a soul

“Yeah, it’s 3-2 now. Next game is on Sunday, so you’ll be home to watch.” She had watched alone. Ate Denise no longer cared for basketball, Danny was still too young to understand and her mother did not care for sports. It was unfortunate that their favorite team lost, but it was blessing in disguise, because Diana would get to watch the next game with her father. With the concerted support of the father and daughter team, Jordan and Pippen would be sure to show Malone and Stockton how true teamwork was really done in order to become champions. Diana was the last one left in the waiting room. The appointment with Dr. Chang was quick and easy. She had been going to Dr. Chang for years and year after year, each visit was uneventful; she had her strong teeth to account for that. Nonetheless, the typical dental clinic smell always got to her. Fortunately, in the waiting room, the smell typical of dental clinics – a nauseating mix of chewy rubber gloves, sterile metal as sharp as the manual tip used to demolish tartar, and saccharine sweet mint – was less potent. Her attention remained divided between the celebrity trash magazine and the window where she would glance to see if her father was finally there to pick her up. She cursed her father for running on island time yet again. Even if he set all the clocks ten minutes advanced he was perpetually late. “Miss, what are you doing?” Diana looked up to see where the voice came from. The receptionist’s gaze was upon her and it was a little too intense for her liking. Diana looked around to make sure the question was intended for her. “I’m waiting for my dad to pick me up.” The receptionist sighed loudly. “Clinic’s closed now. I have to get home and feed my dog. He gets antsy if I get home late so you can’t stay here…Well, that is, unless you’re going to start cleaning.” Inwardly Diana flinched but she just frowned. Fair enough, she told herself, she could not wait to get out of there either. After a moment of conflicted hesitation, she dropped the magazine, did not say another word and exited quickly. She left not because of fear but because she was indignant. If she stayed a moment longer, the receptionist could say something else. Good or bad, she did not want to find out. Sitting down on the curb, Diana waited and stared blankly at the traffic passing her by. About twenty minutes later, her father arrived. “Why are you waiting outside, hija? It’s better to wait inside.”He was puzzled to find his daughter waiting outside. Typical of those accustomed to suburban life, her father became allergic to the great outdoors based on the adopted notion that it was somehow safer to be indoors.

“Daddy, why are you always late?” Her father dismissed the question nonchalantly. Although he had become acculturated to various Canadian mores, a part of him would always follow the violent ebb and flow of the ocean waves that eroded and shaped the islands where he came from. He would get there when he got there! Bahala na! Everything was good as long as he had his classic rock music as the accompanying soundtrack to his life. At the red light, the steering wheel became his drum set as he belted along with Mick Jagger. “Angieeeeee…Angieeee!” Diana groaned in despair. “Daddy, stop it! You can’t sing!”Her father laughed as he lowered the volume of the stereo. “How was your appointment? Your teeth OK?” “Yeah, everything’s normal…the receptionist said something to me though.” “Oh?” “When my appointment was done, she said I had to leave unless I wanted to start cleaning the clinic.” “That’s not right,” her father remarked earnestly after a moment of silence. “She shouldn’t have said that. Not even to joke…that’s wrong. You’re not a cleaner. Did you report her? You should have told someone. Is that why you were waiting outside?” Diana shrugged. “Whom would I tell? She was the only one there. It’s no big deal anyway…just weird.” Eric Clapton was the singer du jour. Another one of her father’s classic rock tapes accompanied their morning commute as he drove his daughters to school before making his own way to work.The conversation was non-existent. Her Ate Denise was chatting excitedly about her lead role in the upcoming musical at their high school. Now in her final year, Ate Denise had come long a way from being the shy girl who had a slight stutter resulting from being caught between two languages to someone with flawless enunciation rivaling that of Ella Fitzgerald. Diana had to tolerate both Eric Clapton and her sister as she worried about the biology test she should have studied for. When they arrived at front of their school, Ate Denise hopped out quickly while Diana clutched her seat belt in dreaded anticipation. Biology was first period so she would have no time to cram. “Diana, before you go…I couldn’t sleep last night,” her father started. Diana paused. “Why?” “You said something to me last night. I couldn’t sleep because of that.” Diana huffed, “What did I say?” Her father cleared his throat as he continued cautiously, “You called me that word.” “What word?” Diana drew a blank.

Kay de Guzman | The observation of a soul

“Stupid.” Diana blinked in bewilderment. Her memory about last night’s heated discussion had already regressed. These days, they would fight over pointless things, such as - if the sky was really blue. It could be argued that it was blue in the literal sense but she was a smart aleck and said that the sky was a chameleon anyway, because its colour was not the same at all hours of the day. Sometimes she pitied her parents because she switched overnight from the melancholic, sensitive child to the tempest who howled profanities. Still she could not stop the hot flame always at the tip of her tongue. She was not at all placid like her two siblings. Diana’s eyes were shut tight with eyebrows furrowed as she desperately tried to remember what they fought about. They were discussing her verbal warning at her thankless part-time job at the local hardware store. Diana was upset because she thought her father was not supposed to be privy to the verbal warning, but then he learned about it directly from her boss, Nancy. As he happened to be shopping at the store for materials to create a storage unit, Nancy had stopped him and expressed her grievous concerns regarding his disrespectful daughter. She said Diana was a diligent worker but that she had no filter for her biting words, for both customers and coworkers alike. Her father must have kept a straight face during this revelation. When he confronted his daughter, knowing that his daughter was no longer a little girl and a simple palo had long become insufficient, he expected verbal warfare. He told her he came from a place of concern because interactions in the real world functioned on diplomacy. His belief was that the unspoken aim of each interaction was to ensure the other party was never offended and that one should try his hardest to get along with everyone. If he so happened to feel insulted, the offence would have to be very grave to elicit that reaction. Even if it were bad, he could put up with a lot. This daughter, meanwhile, wanted not to experience insult in the first place, and would not want to put up with insults. Diana was tired of turning the other cheek and wished her father would stop doing so. Eric Clapton continued to croon.“Shut up, Eric Clapton!”Diana thought, “I don’t want to hear your ‘Bell Bottom Blues’ right now!” Diana contemplated her words. After a brief eternity, she replied, “I didn’t mean that you were stupid. I meant the situation was stupid but that you just didn’t get it. It’s stupid to put up with other people’s garbage. I mean, ‘stupid’ is a word that teenagers use these days to describe things they don’t like or don’t agree with. I didn’t mean it as an insult.” She could barely look at her father as she tried to explain this but when she finally chanced a glance, she saw that his head was sunken. The expression on his brown face read exhaustion as if he was ready to give up on life after

holding on so long. “You’re not stupid…I’m sorry.” He was not facing her anymore. “I’m sorry about what I said. I gotta go now. I don’t wanna be late for school. Have a good day at work…I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry.” She felt incredible guilt for causing her father to lose sleep over something that was supposedly inconsequential to anyone else. Stupid was a word that everyone threw around for fun. Yes, she was capable of saying the words “I’m sorry.” In spite of that, she was incapable of persuading him to believe that he was not stupid. She could explain to him that he was not stupid until she was blue in the face but only a dramatic shift in circumstances could make him believe otherwise. He had been doing this for close to fifteen years, this cleaning. Upon immigrating to Canada, her father had experimented with a handful of jobs before he finally settled on cleaning professionally. Unbeknownst to most, even cleaning as a profession has a hierarchy and he had worked his way up. Fastforward to the present day, and now he has a cushy job with a good salary and benefits as a janitor with the School Board. After fifteen years of progressive repetition he become very good at cleaning. He was so good at cleaning that the family was rewarded and they could now afford a house just like everyone else. In fact, it was so pleasant to know they were doing even better than some white Canadian people. By virtue of his incredible self-control and financial prowess, her father paid off their mortgage in just five years. She knew he prided himself on this accomplishment. The bank people were amazed, rubbing their eyes to make sure it was actually true. Many white people, born and raised in their home and native land of permafrost and ice, were far off from paying off their twenty-five year mortgages. In addition to a beautiful, mortgage-free house in the suburbs, their family was able to take a vacation every once in a while and, well, pretend to be happy just like everyone else. “Ate, what grade did you get on your pasta bridge?” Danny asked Diana. Diana looked up from her statistics textbook. “I don’t remember, kiddo. It was a long time ago…I did pretty good.” Danny and his friend Thomas busied themselves with the arrangement of their raw materials: linguine, spaghetti, vermicelli, lasagna, penne and an assortment of little curled pastas. Diana rolled her eyes at the boxes of pasta sprawled about on the carpet. “Make sure not to make too much of a mess. I’m not cleaning up after you guys again. And don’t you dare put that on Daddy either.” “Don’t worry, Ate, we won’t.” Diana softened. She knew Danny was a good boy but sometimes she could not help but tell him bluntly.

Kay de Guzman | The observation of a soul

The boys were waiting for their father’s help. The pasta bridge symbolized a rite of passage for all seventh graders. Their father had helped Ate Denise, her and now it was Danny’s turn. He was always very excited to help with the project. With her and her sister, he had created the most intricate structures. Their teachers had scratched their heads wondering how the girls who were obviously more inclined to soft subjects were able to ace such a technical project. Little did they know that their father had graduated from the top engineering school in the Philippines and had practiced as a civil engineer for several years. Diana scoffed at the thought. He had been reduced to being validated by strings of wheat. Diana found it hard to pay attention to her textbook. She put on headphones to fade out the chatter once her father arrived home from work. He had been so eager to get started that he had not bothered to change right away from his work clothes as he usually did. He reeked of chemical cleaner and the keys on his belt loop jingled loudly with each movement. “I sketched this during my break,” her father unfolded a sheet of paper and revealed a blueprint of an architecturally eye-pleasing structure replete with triangles. “In real life I would put more arches because the circle is the strongest shape in nature there is, but that would be too complicated to do with pasta. The next strongest shape is the triangle.” Diana’s embarrassment regarding her father’s circumstance of a lost occupation had been great when she was young. To console herself then, she imagined how in a previous life he used to build roads that led to the sheikh’s palace and that he used to be a camel whisperer in his spare time. Diana had long passed that stage of adoring her father, and now knew he was not as invincible as her impressionable child’s mind had perceived. She was no longer that little girl who was embarrassed by having a janitor for a father. It occurred to Diana that while there was this revelation that her father was not a superhero, on the other hand, she now had the chance to create her own fantastical story. She was now in university and had a real chance to make the Canadian Dream happen without a hitch. This “Dream,” which her parents first believed they had a chance at, but really did not, was actually hers for the taking! She had a fighting chance. But really, sometimes she just wanted to give Canada the middle finger. Over the years their home had been a refuge for those who had been tricked into the second less glamorous career of cleaning. At the kitchen table her father had conversations with various coworkers-turned-friends from every corner of the world over bottles of beer. All these men were highly educated in their homelands and experienced in their respective fields. They had all immigrated through the point system and had entered the country with preconceived notions of a land of opportunity. Each had pursued the

Canadian Dream with varying degrees of effort though some were more driven than others. However, without fail, all were denied positions of power and influence on the grounds that they did not have Canadian experience despite being highly qualified. There were many who had passed through, but the ones Diana recalled the most were the men who put their parental skills into action in her presence. For example, there was the princely Sikh man with incredible posture, eyes like a hawk and a permanent frown. This man would watch her every move as if she were his own daughter to make sure she was not disruptive. Irrespective of whatever words he directed to her, the deep vibrato in his voice was always enough to get Diana to stop fidgeting. He had been a cardiologist in India but when he arrived in Canada, he could not find a job. He started by driving taxicabs as he saw other Indians doing but stopped because he became prone to intense waves of carsickness. Once he realized few other options existed, he gave up and began cleaning. Another memorable friend of her father’s was an agreeable Mexican with highly expressive eyebrows. One moment, the man was telling the story of how he almost got hypothermia on his first job in Canada as an outdoor gas station attendant in the bone-chilling cold of winter. The next, without flinching, he was in position to strike, yelling “¡Cállate!” at his two small crying children. Each night, during the first year, his wife wept so inconsolably that she rivaled the cries of their children. Both husband and wife had been engineers: she, a mechanical engineer, and he, electrical. At first, Diana’s father pursued a career in engineering but all he could manage was a part-time position as a draftsman. It paid low and work was sporadic. With a young family to feed, he could not continue on that path. Eventually, he joined the countless others who cleaned on weekdays (and weekends depending on the cleaning position) and wallowed in drink on weekends. Likewise, her father always had his sinturon4 ready at any given moment to give a palo5 if she or her siblings stepped out of line. This would often prompt an impromptu game of hide-and-seek. Despite the endless hurdles and challenges, these men took their responsibility of rearing the next generation seriously. Collectively, these men came from cultures where they were raised to value discipline and strength, which they would practice, in their respective households. Child and Family Services be damned, they thought. Canadians did not know how to raise children. As the men witnessed in their workplaces, neither discipline nor strength mattered. All that ma ttered was that the schools were clean and that Canadian children felt special and unthreatened. Neither speck of dirt nor tough love was acceptable. As the men cleaned, they witnessed the entitlement of the Canadian children. By ensuring that the learning environment was sterile, the Canadian children would become the next generation of doctors and lawyers who could then afford to hire an endless supply of hands to do the work that was beneath them. Smiling became the veneer over their dissatisfaction with others.

Kay de Guzman | The observation of a soul

Her father was busy trying to stay afloat financially and mentally that he never did notice certain things. He worked hard so that Diana and her siblings would not end up “tulad ni Nena” since they came from a country “marami pang iba; kahit saan, maraming Nena.” As the years passed, he must have wondered why Diana became increasingly angry. The other two in his trio of children did not express this aggressive emotion that was undesirable, especially in the female, in the happy-go-lucky island culture he was raised within. Eventually, her haphazard anger subsided into a dormancy that awoke, but with control, only when she was pushed over the edge. With her front row ticket, Diana stared at her father’s soul and saw a murky mix of disappointment, sadness, doubt, humiliation, and exhaustion. Even so, he kept going and Diana kept watching. The handsome, confident young man with a head of full black hair slowly transformed into a graying and balding man, whose speech was marked with diffidence. With each year that passed, his gaze dropped lower. It really was a wonder to Diana that he did not become like Quasimodo. Everywhere she looked, she saw the same tired faces. Through the years, their numbers increased exponentially. She felt discomfort when she saw nannies abound in certain neighborhoods in the city. She soon found herself hoping she was not being confused for one of them. She winced whenever she happened to be at a Tim Horton’s. Their bumbling attempts at English were cringe-worthy. She stood in awkward silence when sharing the sparkling glass elevators downtown with the cleaning ladies. Their humongous carts full of cleaning supplies made the scenery less enjoyable. Navigating through Canadian public spaces, she was bombarded with images of low-skilled, servile immigrant labor. At times, it was just too much and she could not help but look away as she walked past them. She could be bothered to stare at her beloved father’s eyeballs but these were the eyeballs of strangers. Later she would curse her insensitivity but those moments of ignorance reminded her why things were the way they were. Everyone was too caught up surviving in his or her own world. She thought of the classical religious paintings of hell juxtaposed with heaven that she found in the old Bibles her mother would collect from the garage sales she frequented. For hours she would pore over those Bibles, enthralled by those images. The attention she paid to heaven was only for a split second, however. Hell was much more fascinating. The only purpose of heaven’s cool pastel hues of white and blue was to bring out in contrast the intensity of hell’s phenomenal shades - those devilish red banners contaminated with black venous blood en route to bring power to the center of the earth. The family had escaped an archipelago replete with the comfort of the sun, the presence of God in the coconut. The majestic kalabaw. Shades of green unknown to man anywhere else. Abundant vegetation nurtured by the blood

of warriors laid to rest. Plump pigs roasting over open fire pits transforming into delectable lechón. The laughter and chatter of children playing in the streets. Friendly faces greeting you wherever you went. World class shopping malls with world class security consisting of metal detectors and pat downs. Pulis patola who would venture into the baryo. Well-to-do children orphaned, their parents executed by those who envied their estates and their power. Old foreign men unappreciated in their homelands able to buy love from poor little children putas. Desperate mothers shamelessly letting their babies in diapers peddle and beg in front of them. Upon reaching the shores of their new home everything was lawful and orderly. It was not until closer inspection that they and countless others like them found out why everything was so shiny and new. They were the secret – they were the ones scouted to do the cleaning. If they did not realize it from afar on the TV screen, they realized it up close and personal when they were on their hands and knees polishing countless surfaces to make them as immaculate as the Virgin Mary. Diana closed her textbook and took her headphones off. She had had enough of studying. Danny and Thomas continued to glue the pasta pieces with a concentrated seriousness. Their father stood up looking satisfied, “OK, my work here is done. I think you boys can manage without me now. You know what you’re doing.” The keys jingled softly as her father left the room. He left behind the smell of lemon-scented industrial chemical cleaner. Diana inhaled deep and it was fragrantly sweet.

ate older sister pare affectionate slang term for “friend” hija daughter sinturon belt palo spanking marami pang iba; kahit saan, maraming Nena. Excerpt from Heber Bartholome’s song “Nena.”Translation: Just like “Nena”(a young woman forced into prostitution due to her poverty); There are countless others; Where ever you go, there’s always a “Nena.”Bartholome derived the name “Nena”from a traditional nursery rhyme but the word is also an affectionate term for “little girl”in Spanish kalabaw Water buffalo. The kalabaw is of great importance in Filipino culture especially when considering its deep agricultural roots. lechon Specialty dish: roasted pig. pulis patola Literally, police gourd, Slang term for “useless police.” baryo Neighbourhood. Variant spelling of “barrio.” puta Whore/ Prostitute.

bert monterona | Transformation

Jennilee Austria

DELMAR IN THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE

“M

iss, you called me?”Delmar asked, bewildered to be in the principal’s office for the first time in his life. Setting her coffee down on the smooth veneer of her desk, the principal looked at the nervous boy and thought of the many others she had seen before him. It was always the same with newcomers. Ms. Forte had the hard stare of a principal who felt the school population just slipped through her hands like sand. She now fixed it on Delmar’s anxious face. “I checked your files,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You just started school two weeks ago, but you haven’t been going to class.” Delmar watched as she tapped a manicured nail on a small pile of papers that could still be warm from the printer. Surprised that anyone was keeping track, he explained quickly, “I just came to Canada, and it’s hard for me, the adjusting. My mama is never...” “Let me guess,” Ms. Forte sighed. “Your mother starts work early. She isn’t there to wake you up, and you can’t get yourself out of bed. Every Filipino at this school gives me this excuse. Why do you kids think this is valid?” Although talks of this nature were generally the domain of guidance counsellors, Ms. Forte felt that her staff was too soft when it came to immigrants. She preferred meeting the school’s newest absentees herself. Removing the burgundy eyeglasses that were perched on top of her head, she glared at the boy. At this, he looked down at his feet, and noticed that the laces on his new shoes were already fraying. “Miss,” he tried to say respectfully, “Mama doesn’t make a lot of money. Going to school costs bus tokens, and she can’t afford...” “You know, coming from a big Italian family, I don’t buy that immigrant poverty story,” the principal interrupted, her painted red lips narrowing to a thin slit. Everything about her seemed to be hard, Delmar thought. “We’re from Calabria, one of the absolutely poorest regions of Italy. When my parents arrived in Toronto in the 1950’s, my father had only three cents in his pocket. Just three cents. And… he struggled.” Ms. Forte emphasized the last two words. “He worked hard to save his money,” she continued, “he did his best to learn English, and he never missed a single day of work. We saved every penny and now look at us. Today, he’s retired and lives in his dream house

Jennilee Austria | Delmar in the Principal’s Office

in Woodbridge, and I’m the principal of a school. We made it. Today’s immigrants don’t have to endure hardship like we did. Now you have things like food banks and welfare. But all we had was hard work.” After wondering what a bank of food and welfare could possibly be, Delmar thought about growing up in Manila without his mother. He thought of the boys in his Project 6 neighbourhood who were turning out to be just like their fathers - drinking beer, sitting around on the sidewalk. Buying cheap cigarettes and sending up, as people said, money into smoke. They gambled away the remittances sent to them by their mothers. All of their mothers were working abroad and paying for other women, nannies, yayas, to take care of the children they had to leave behind. But a nanny taking care of children wasn’t the same as a mother caring for her children. A nanny could do a child’s laundry and make sure that he ate enough, but she could never make sure that the kid turned out right. And now, after all of those years apart, he was finally living with his mama again. And although he knew that he should be happy, the truth was he didn’t even know how to feel about her. She was a stranger. Delmar squeezed his hands together and said, “Miss, I never knew my mama. She left the Philippines when I was only three years old. First, she worked in Hong Kong. Then, Israel. She was always a caregiver for someone: a baby, a senior. Never for me. Even now, every day, she takes care of other people’s children. And at night, she cleans offices downtown.” He looked at his hands. “She leaves home before I wake up, and she doesn’t come back until midnight. She says she’s saving money for a house, but I don’t care about this. I just arrived in Canada, and I’m always alone. I’m only seventeen.” “Seventeen!” Ms. Forte exclaimed and her eyes widened behind the angular frames. “Why, at seventeen, my parents were never home. My mother worked as a seamstress and my father was a construction worker. And I’m an Italian—we have big families, you know. It was my job to take care of my younger siblings, to cook dinner, to make sure everyone did their homework, to put them all to bed. I don’t know what it’s like for Filipinos, but for Italians, at seventeen, you’re an adult. You’re a man!” “But Miss, you don’t understand.” Delmar pushed his long black hair out of his eyes, feeling his eyes quickly turning red. He knew that in the Philippines, speaking to a principal like this would be unthinkable, but right at that moment he needed her to know how broken he had become. His life in the Philippines had been difficult, but life in that gloomy, lifeless apartment at Bathurst and Wilson was worse than he could have ever imagined. He continued quietly, “Only once, when I was nine, Mama saved up enough money to visit me. Mama wouldn’t let anyone tell me that we were

picking her up at the airport. She wanted to surprise me. But when mama came out and hugged me, I looked at my Nanay Neneng, my grandma, and asked her who this lady was. Nanay yelled at me so much that I cried. Everyone in the terminal thought that I was a bad son. But how could I have known who she was? I had no memories of her. And mama hadn’t even left a picture behind. I had never seen her face before.” Ms. Forte’s eyes darted to her watch as she impatiently tapped his attendance papers. “Mama stayed for two weeks and bought me anything I wanted,´Delmar continued, “but when I woke up one morning, she had gone again. Now that we are finally together again in Canada, I should be happy, but I never see her until she comes at midnight. We talk even less. I know school is important, but life here is not what I thought it would be.” The principal held up her hand. She had another meeting in a few minutes, so it was time to find a solution. “You said that your mother comes home very late. Do you stay up and wait for her?” He nodded. “We eat dinner together at midnight, and then she falls asleep on the couch. I put her things away, I get her a pillow and blanket, and I pack up the left-over food for her lunch for the next day.” “You know, Dalomar, in Calabria, that would be something you do for your drunken father. My own father was always having wine with dinner and...” “My name is Delmar after both of my parents: Delia and Martin,” he corrected, sitting up straighter in his second-hand uniform. “But in the Philippines, the mother is like the father of the house, She works hard, she earns the money, and she keeps the family alive.” The principal looked at her watch again. “Okay, Delmar, here’s the deal. You have to go to bed earlier. No more staying up late. I’m sure your mother will understand that you need a full eight hours of sleep so that you can be ready for school in the morning.” She slid his attendance papers into his student file. His dark eyes grew large and questioning. “Miss, my mother left me behind so I could have a better life in Canada, right?” “Of course she did,” Ms. Forte replied. “And now that you’re in Canada...” “Now that I’m in Canada,” Delmar interrupted, drowning Ms. Forte’s final words, “I’d like to know when that better life will start.”’

Cesar Polvorosa, Jr.

Moving FURNITURE 48

t was the message that I was eagerly waiting for. “We will deliver the furniture you requested on December 8. Call me for details,” stated the email from Mario of the United Toronto Aid Society. It meant that I would finally be able to furnish my apartment! “I am just grateful for whatever the Aid Society can spare me. I know that there are so many people with more urgent requirements,” I told Mario quite sincerely on the pay phone inside the convenience store adjacent to the apartment building the day before the delivery. “Oh, it’s really nothing big but we are sure you will find it useful for your most basic needs,” he replied. I sneezed as I went out. I was feverish and often shivered. The days were getting colder. However, this was no time to rest. I swept the apartment thoroughly and cleared the floor of my files in preparation for the furniture. I felt ashamed about pleading for help from the Aid Society. However, although my wife had already resigned from her job in the Philippines, she was very much delayed in joining me in Toronto. She was to take up an employment offer in an office at the downtown Eaton Centre. In the meantime, having signed a one year contract, I was stuck with a $900 per month unfurnished two-bedroom apartment along Victoria Park Avenue. What I called home at present was like an older sister of many residential buildings that dotted the Toronto skyline. It was not a grand old dame with classic, elegant lines nor was it a young, gorgeous creature with a stylish, post-modern look. It was rather a middle-aged lady looking haggard and wearing grimy and unfashionable clothes. It was a twenty-story, fortyyear old structure with all the scars and wrinkles to show. White paint was peeling off in diverse places. The individual units had balconies with rusty, drab gray railings that together were like rectangular boxes that jutted out of the sides of the building. A few of the balconies had protruding cable satellite dishes and bicycle wheels dangling over the railings. It was no better inside. Each unit had parquet flooring and walls painted a dirty white. My wife would surely be critical of the tiny and shabby kitchen. The smoke from my cooking had once triggered the building fire alarm, so despite the colder days, I would often open the windows to let the smoke out when I cooked. The hallways were dark and the smell of refuse often wafted in the air from the garbage chute of every floor, and sometimes mingled with the pungent aroma of spices and various condiments, meats and fish from the multitude of ethnic dishes prepared daily. The building

attracted immigrants in need of lodgings that are comparatively cheap and safe. The building occupants reflected what impressed me as the multicultural tapestry of Toronto. While most wore Western clothes, I sometimes met in the lobby Middle Eastern men garbed in flowing robes; Muslim women with their hijab; South Asians in their resplendent saris and Jamaicans in yellow or green shirts, sporting braided hair. I often had the chance to greet and speak with fellow Filipinos. I frequently bumped into them as they darted in and out of the building, to and from their double jobs in the city. They were sometimes mistaken for Chinese and other East Asians. Unobtrusive, deferential, often unremarkable and low key in their manner, Filipinos could be described as the invisible “visible minority” of Toronto. The delivery time of 10 a.m. came and went with no Aid Society vehicle arriving. I kept pacing around the lobby and making small talk with some of the tenants. I saw a few Filipinos and exchanged some news about the home country and about the latest game of the Raptors. It was almost 11 a.m. when I went to the adjacent convenience store payphone to call Mario. He said they had just found two guys to help me bring up the furniture to my apartment unit and they would soon get going. I heaved a sigh of relief. Due to my high blood pressure condition, I was concerned about lifting heavy objects. By noon there was still no delivery van. I was stuck in the lobby, waiting. After a while, I observed one of the apartment residents having difficulty starting his van. Frowning, he clambered out of the van and slammed the door. He was a stout, balding fellow and he was grimacing from the effort as he tried to push the vehicle. I went out and offered to help the guy. We pushed his van, a rusty, cream-coloured ten-year old Chrysler Caravan, into the parking lot. The coldness of the metal penetrated my fingers. I wasn’t wearing my gloves. I also felt chilly because I was only clad in my Maple Leafs sweatshirt, but then I didn’t expect that moving furniture to my apartment unit would take such a long time. The van owner returned with me to the lobby to wait for his wife and told me that they would just take the TTC bus. I asked him about how he came to Canada. “I have lived in Canada for twenty years,”he replied while his hands sought the warmth of the pockets of his brown corduroy pants. “I come from Greece and I work in the hospital. How about you? You don’t look familiar to me.” “I come from the Philippines and I’ve been here only about three months.” “So, this is your first winter in Canada?” “Yes, and it’s really very cold for me.” “It’s only early December. Just wait till the middle of next month.” He laughed and his considerable bulk shook from his merriment. “So, are you

Cesar Polvorosa, Jr. | Moving furniture

working in a factory nearby?” he asked. I was taken aback. I knew this society took pride in its egalitarian values so there was nothing to be ashamed about being a factory worker. Trying to understand people in daily life situations, however, often left me confused. “No, I am a Teaching Assistant at the U of T where I am taking my PhD,” I replied. He arched his eyebrows and his grey eyes widened in surprise but before he could reply his heavily bundled up wife came out of the elevator. She had an aquiline nose and large brown eyes and smiled at me when her husband told her about our struggle with the van. They were soon gone, leaving me alone in the lobby. It was now almost 1 p.m. It wasn’t really the best day for me to be moving furniture. I had been feverish, was nursing a headache and even felt a lump in my throat. I had been coughing, too. It was also the day before the last day of the semester when classes ended for the winter break. However, this was the only day this week that I could be accommodated by the Aid Society. I also learned that there could be heavy snow next week. I ran again to the neighboring convenience store to use the phone and called the Aid Society while I munched hurriedly on cookies to appease my grumbling stomach. My heart was pounding from the sprinting and my temples were throbbing from the uncertainty of the delivery time. When I was diagnosed with high blood pressure, the doctor had advised me to relax in stressful situations. There was no way I could relax now. On the phone, Mario told me that a “Garth” delivery van would be arriving in half an hour. Again, I was relieved. This would soon be over. After nearly an hour, a full size Gartz 18-wheeler container van came up the driveway from Victoria Park Avenue. It could not be the one! I was expecting only a delivery van or a light truck. But then the huge truck approached the lobby entrance. It was a noisy, lumbering behemoth with a menacing scowl. I went outside and looked up to the driver’s side. The driver peered out and said, “I am making a delivery for the Aid Society. I am John. Are you Paulo?” “Yes, I am Paulo. All of that is for me?” I asked pointing at the container van with my mouth agape. He wasn’t even listening as he maneuvered the rear of the truck to unload the contents directly into the main entrance. It crossed the curb into the parking lot as it straightened itself and my heart skipped a beat when I heard the sound of cracking concrete. The truck reversed and was like an impatient bull snorting and on the verge of bucking and going berserk in its narrow pen, raring to throw off the first one brave enough to straddle it. It was too huge for the narrow driveway of an apartment building. I then saw the building manager, whom I only knew by sight and who resembled the actor Danny De Vito. He walked hurriedly across the parking

lot. I saw the lines of worry etched on his face. He was waving his arms frantically in an obvious sign for John to stop. He looked up at John and, though what he was saying was barely audible above the din of the now idling motor, it was clear from the direction of his pointing fingers that he was telling him to use the driveway at the back of the building. While the leviathan on wheels groaned, emitted smoke and gradually made the turn towards the service entrance at the back of the apartment, the building manager strode towards me and I was astonished to see his face livid with rage. “Are they delivering your stuff?” he asked in a shrill voice while pointing to the container van slowly passing out of our view as it rounded the corner. “Yes, but…“ “You know better than to let them use the main lobby!” he shouted into my face while an accusing finger was just inches from my nose. “Don’t you know the rules!” he berated me. “I didn’t know that it was a big truck and…“ “Be thankful we don’t fine you for this. You people fresh off the boat really don’t know anything!” he sneered. I felt I was slapped a hundred times. “Go down to the back of the building and meet them there!” he rudely dismissed me and stormed off to the main lobby before I had the chance to respond. I flushed with embarrassment. I felt I had shrunk in size from the withering stare of all humanity and yet I was alone. I was thankful there was nobody loitering at the lobby or in front of the building at that moment in that cold and windy early December afternoon. I was impaled on the spot for a few seconds, still absorbing what transpired, when I suddenly remembered: the truck! I ran down to the service entrance as fast as I could and saw John’s crew starting to unload the furniture. John, who may have been East European from his accent, was of slight built with salt and pepper hair but his two crew members were robust, big bodied young men. The taller and burly one with dread locks was Jamaican, I told myself after exchanging pleasantries with him. The other fellow, shorter and stocky, was obviously South Asian. This should not take long, I thought, and I would still have time later to prepare for my tutorial class the next day. As I helped them unload, I was pleasantly surprised. There were: an oak dining table with matching four chairs; a big green and brown microfibre sofa set with a marble top center table; two lamp stands; a walnut book shelf; a queen size mattress bed and even a chest of drawers with white lacquer finish. No wonder they used a container van! I gazed at the scene like a pirate gloating over his loot and laying claim to everything he beheld. It was much more than I asked for and expected. “Are you sure these are all mine?” I managed to ask as I was little

Cesar Polvorosa, Jr. | Moving furniture

unable to contain my excitement and unexpected good fortune. “All the tags have your name” he responded nonchalantly. When everything was unloaded, I told the guys that we could start carrying the sofa to my apartment unit. “No, we’re leaving everything here,” said John. “What? Leave everything here? But how do you expect me to bring up all of these by myself?” I asked incredulously. “We are late for our next delivery. We have to go,” said John coldly and started his engine. His two crewmen hopped on after getting my signature on their delivery form. The truck roared to life, started to climb up the asphalted driveway and then disappeared from view, with its exhaust smoke briefly trailing behind before dissipating quickly in the breeze. Light snow began to fall. It was now quiet except for the occasional gust of chilly wind. I was all alone outside the service entrance. There was a huge garbage bin and various junk strewn around. I turned my attention to the pile of my precious furniture. It was a treasure trove, all of which I needed for a civilized life in Toronto. But how could I bring these up to my apartment unit? It would never have been a problem back in the Philippines. The guys in the neighborhood would have just come and moved everything. Later, I would have bought food, soft drinks and maybe beer, and everybody would have had a good time. But here, whom would I ask to help me? Even as I admired the workmanship of the chest of drawers I felt a jolt, thinking of the staggering task before me. The chest barely budged when I tried to move it. I imagined the acerbic building manager’s face contorting with rage at seeing furniture blocking the rear entrance of his beloved property. The thought galvanized me to immediate action. Heavy snow now pelted the compound and I was shivering in the light sweatshirt I was wearing. I started moving the furniture, albeit very slowly due to the weight, just inside the building. Despite the cold, I could feel my body starting to sweat. As I strove to carry two dining chairs to the elevator, I recalled the doctor’s advice not to over-exert myself because of my high blood pressure. I stared back at the pile of furniture that was like a rugged mountainous landscape amidst the falling snow. I felt a sudden weakening in my limbs as I realized the impossibility of this task. The gods gave me a gift that I was unable to claim though it was laid out before my eyes for the taking. It was like gazing at the Promised Land and feeling fated never to enter it. But Nicky would be home at this time! I suddenly of Nicky, my Filipino friend on the 7th floor, who worked the night shift at a packaging factory. He would be back at this time! He would be sleeping, but I could wake him

up. I dropped the chairs and ran to the lobby at the front of the building and used his unit buzzer frantically to call him. There was no response after almost 10 minutes of intermittent buzzing. All the while, I was worried about the furniture at the back of the building exposed to the elements and potential thieves. I then dashed once more to the nearby convenience store payphone and called Nicky. Finally, after several minutes, he answered the phone with a sleepy and grumpy voice. He met me at the back of the building and asked me why I was so flustered. His eyes were still red from a rudely interrupted sleep. His wavy hair with speckles of gray was unkempt. His paunch showed in his red sweater but he had broad shoulders and sinewy arms, thanks to all the manual labor he did in his factory job. I explained to him the situation and the day’s events. He yawned, rubbed his eyes absentmindedly and said, “This is the stuff that you were telling me about? You got it free so don’t expect any royal treatment. I just had a few hours of sleep. We better get moving so we can finish this as soon as possible. I still have to work later.” We started with the queen size mattress. We dragged it to the elevator. Nicky had to hold the elevator button while I, summoning all my strength, made a swift and strong push to put the entire mattress inside the elevator within a second or two before the elevator alarm sounded off. Next was the formidable task of pushing the furniture through the carpeted hallways of my floor. I was always critical of the moldy, dark green and brown carpets of the hallways but today I was thankful for them. There was less friction on the floor. No noise to make other tenants grumble. I, however, often had to pause for shortness of breath. I could feel my lower back beginning to complain. I looked at Nicky with a little envy. While we were both in our late thirties, the difference in our occupations was shown off in the difference of our physique. His factory work kept him in good physical condition. I realized that in moving furniture today, my academic degrees were totally useless. The mattress was just the first piece and already I was panting! The bookshelf came next. More than six feet in height, it challenged us to determine the best angle that would allow it to go inside the elevator. Somehow, after a few tries, we managed to push it inside the elevator, got it out at my floor, glided it slowly over the carpets and brought it inside my apartment unit. Then we found out, while we struggled with the weight of the dining table, that one of its legs had loose screws. I cursed my lack of exercise. I was an overweight academic. I could feel my prominent belly as it impeded my movements and irritated me in my repeated stooping. I grunted at almost every step. I felt my arms and legs

Cesar Polvorosa, Jr. | Moving furniture

melt after each round of pushing and carrying a piece of furniture into my apartment. I was trembling when I was outside, but now I was sweating profusely and I could feel that my undershirt was thoroughly soaked. The thought of my high blood pressure gnawed at my insides but I dared not tell Nicky. Otherwise, he would insist that I just take it easy and that would double my discomfort and embarrassment. Sweat was dribbling over my temples and nose and loosening up my eyeglasses. We struggled with the formidable chest of drawers - not as tall as the bookshelf, but even without the drawers, it was twice as heavy. Nicky ribbed me, saying that he was more exhausted in what we were doing than he was in his straight twelve-hour factory shift. The sofa frustrated us because it was short of fitting into the elevator by a mere inch. We eventually unscrewed the sofa legs, but moving it proved to be more frustrating. The sofa micro fiber fabric afforded an easy grip but it was simply too heavy. I pushed the rear end while Nicky held the front. We made very slow progress and paused for a few seconds every twenty meters or so. I felt my heart galloping wildly and straining from the effort. We reached my door and we simply gave it one final shove inside. It was the last! While still breathing heavily and sweat streaming all over, I thanked Nicky profusely. He just grinned while wiping sweat from his forehead and removing some dust and bits of dirt from his sweater and replied that helping each other was what Filipinos should do especially in other lands. I nodded my head in quiet and sudden understanding. Everything was now secure inside my apartment and the crisis was over, I thought. My knees become wobbly and despite myself, my cheeks became hot. I was aware that a tear was forming in my eyes. “What’s the matter?” Nicky asked with his almond eyes straining to widen in a quizzical expression. “I am sorry,” I replied as I recalled the events of the day and the slashing words of the ill educated building manager. “It’s just that I remembered that in my entire adult life no one has ever shouted at me. That is, until now.” “Not even your wife?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, wives are exempt,” I smiled weakly and kept my emotions in check. “And this is the first time that I had to beg for furniture,” I said dejectedly. “I understand what you mean,” he said in a serious tone. “However, you probably got more than a thousand dollars worth of furniture. That happens when you know where to seek help. So, you get shouted at and you have to move the furniture yourself. You better get used to these things. Remember

that you are no longer in our country. When you are here, you have to throw away all of your pride. I had my share of trials during the early days. I am still facing challenges everyday. The struggle never stops but my situation is better now. It will be the same for you,” Nicky reassured me and patted my back. “I know. It’s just much easier said than done,” I said morosely. Deep inside me, I remained optimistic about the future. I reminded myself that I would invite him out next week and treat him to dinner. “You will do fine. You can now sleep in a real bed. Your wife and son will soon arrive. She will start earning and then you can buy other things for the apartment,” he said as he turned to go. “I have to go back to sleep. After two hours, I am off again to a twelve- hour shift. I hope this back strain is not serious.” He added as he grimaced from discomfort while clutching his back. For me, the work was not over. My cramped apartment was a jumbled mess. It was even difficult getting into the kitchen as the bookshelf blocked the way. After hurriedly gulping down hot tea and munching an apple, I forced myself to move the various pieces of furniture into their proper places. It was already dark outside. The constricted space and my limited muscle power hampered me. When it was all over, I collapsed on my new queen-sized mattress. I felt my limbs drained of energy while my arms and lower back started to stiffen. I woke up burning with fever and with a throbbing headache and a painful throat. I opened my eyes and squinted as the harsh late morning sun flooded the curtainless bedroom. I had slept in my sweat-soaked undershirt and sweatshirt. I couldn’t get up! I felt sore all over and my joints were painful. I sneezed and my nose was dripping like a broken faucet. I now had the dreaded flu. I felt disoriented. I was on a real mattress bed and no longer on a mat on the floor, my sleeping place for about three months. I got up very slowly, weighed down by the dumbbells of my splitting headache. My legs were shaky and I felt I was walking on stilts. My blood pressure may have been elevated but I had no way of knowing, cooped up in the apartment. I would usually go to the No Frills supermarket pharmacy to check my BP but I simply could not do that now. I was wincing from the pain, but I had to smile when I surveyed my dining and living room, now filled up so nicely. The apartment looked better in the daylight with the furniture in their proper positions. I noted that even the oak finish of the dining table matched the shade of the parquet flooring. My wife would be happy with these for starters. I checked out the bookshelf and I imagined my books in their proud places. Then it hit me. I had missed my class! I checked the clock. The class was over 2 hours ago! I was obviously in no physical condition to

Cesar Polvorosa, Jr. | Moving furniture

give tutorials even if I had awakened early. And I was not even able to call about my absence. The students would surely be annoyed that their TA was absent during the crucial last day of the Fall Term. I ate some toast with butter and a banana, felt my head spinning and vomited the little that I ate. I took a Tylenol extra strength flu tablet before I slept again. I was better the following day but I still felt so weak from the fever, headache and body pains that I did not leave my apartment. I was sick and alone in a semi-furnished apartment with no telephone or TV. I just had an old radio. And just a few friends. In a strange country. It dawned on me that I could die here and no one would know for days. Three days after receiving my cherished furniture, I forced myself to cross Lawrence Avenue at twilight and use the internet café in Victoria Terrace to inform the school about my extended sick leave and to check my messages. When I read my email I found the following note from the Course Director: “… I am disappointed that you went on leave on the last lab session of the term and failed to inform me beforehand. There was no excuse for you not to email or call me. Some students have complained that they were unable to complete the final exercise because of your absence. You will schedule a make-up meeting tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.12:00 p.m.” The email was sent the day before. I read the email again and shook my head in utter disbelief. I felt the anger like molten lava rising and roiling my insides. I clenched my hands into fists. What did he know? What did anybody know? I stood up, paid for the internet and turned to leave. A howling, chilly wind greeted me when I opened the door. Winter was approaching. I gritted my teeth as I stepped outside, weak from fever but ready to face the cold night.

Oya Mang-oyan

Canadian Experience

agtatatlong-linggo pa lang si Perry sa Canada. Nang dumating siya’y katatapos pa lamang ng tag-init. Naramdaman agad niya ang kakaibang hampas ng hangin sa kanyang balat. Palibhasa’y sanay siya sa init ng Maynila, sa tuwing dadapyo ang hangin ay napapakilig ang kanyang katawan sa ginaw. Tinatawanan lamang siya ng mga nakilalang mga Pinoy na kasamahan niya sa isang pagawaan ng mga curtain holders. “Masasanay ka rin, ganyan din ako nung bagong dating!” ang pambubuska sa kanya ni Carding, ang kapartner niya sa pagsasalansan ng mga bakal na sabitan ng kurtina. “Pagtagal-tagal mo’y parang balewala na ang ginaw”, ang bati naman ni Caloy, ang nag-iisang Pinoy na pintor sa planta. Napangisi naman sa kanya ang isa pang Pinoy na katabi ni Caloy, si Ricky- ang forklift driver sa planta. Parang sinasabing okey lang yan. Tumango lang si Perry sa kanila, parang sinasabing kayang-kaya niya ang ginaw. Kaya kahit mabigat ang mga sinasalansang mga bakal na curtain holders, nakakatulong naman itong makapagpainit sa kanyang katawan, dahil ang mga mismong bakal na tinatanggal niya sa sabitan at isinasalansan sa loob ng mga crate boxes ay talagang mainit pa. Kahit makapal ang ginagamit niyang gloves ay ramdam pa rin ang tagos na init ng bagong luto at pinturadong bakal na kaaahon pa lang sa hurnuhan. Ang mga mahahabang curtain holders na ito ay pinipinturahan sa isang kulong na silid kung saan ang pulbos na pintura ay iwiniwilig sa mga bakal na pinipinturahan . Mano-mano din ang pagpipintura kung kaya ang mga tatlong pintor ay nagsasalitan sa pagpipintura dahil sa maalikabok sa loob ng spray booth. Sa spraybooth ang teritoryo ni Caloy the expert- ang katawagan sa kanya kahit ng iba pang trabahador sa planta. Pagkatapos na mapinturahan ang mga bakal ay dumadaan naman ito sa sampung metrong oven kung saan niluluto ito sa temperaturang 180degC sa loob ng 15 hanggang 20 minuto. Pagkalabas nito sa bunganga ng oven na nagsisingaw ng mainit na hangin ay kaagad itong tinatanggal sa moving conveyor at isasalansan sa mga nakahanay na mga container boxes na walang

Oya Mang-oyan | CANADIAN EXPERIENCE

tigil at sunod-sunod ang dating na inihahanay ng forklift driver sa kanyang lugar kung saan nandoroon din ang unloading area. Maliksi naman sa pagsasalansan at paghahanay si Ricky. Kabisado na niya ang buong planta sa pagmamaneho ng forklift. Kahit nga sa labas ng planta kung makapal ang snow, ayon sa kwento ng mga taga-planta, mahusay sa kontrol si Ricky. “Like a true pro,” ang laging sambit ng mga trabahador na puti sa kanya. Hinahati ang pagawaan sa iba’t-ibang seksyon: Loading section , chemical treatment, painting, oven treatment at ang pinakahuli’y unloading section. Ang proseso ay umiikot sa pabilog na conveyor kung kaya ang loading at unloading ay nagpapanagpo. Ibig sabihi’y dapat pagkalabas sa oven ay matanggal kaagad ang mga nahurnong sabitan ng kurtina, dahil ang unloading section ay nagsisilbing loading section din. Pagkatanggal na pagkatanggal ng mga nalutong pininturahang bakal ay sinasabitan muli ito ng mga pinturadong curtain holders. Si Perry ang tagatanggal sa unloading samantalang si Carding naman ang tagasabit sa may loading area. Kaya sila talaga ang magpartner. Nang minsang walang nag-unload ng mga nahurnong pinturadong mga curtain holders dahil nasa break time pa ang lahat ng trabahador, ang mga dumaan na sa oven ay muling pumasok sa hurno at naluto nang pangalawang beses kaya paglabas nito’y malalamya na ang kinang. Dahil dito’y kailangan nila itong irework na dagdag trabaho at dagdag gastos din sa kumpanya. Trabaho ng bisor na maiwan sa production line habang nakabreaktime ang mga tao at mag-unload ng mga curtain holders hanggang sa dumating ang mga trabahador pagkatapos ng breaktime nila. Dahil sa kapabayaan nito, sinibak ang bisor. Mabait pa naman ang bisor na iyon, ang kaso’y may katamaran nga lang. Mabilis naman agad napalitan ang nasibak na bisor. Ang pumalit na bisor ay tubong Espanya. Matapang ito at walang alam na salita kundi “fuck” na ginagamit niya sa lahat ng pangungusap na lumalabas sa kanyang bunganga. Minsan napansin yata ng bisor na mabilis magtrabaho ang magpartner na sina Perry at Carding kaya nilapitan nito ang dalawa. “Are you guys fucking Filipinos?” Dahil bago pa nga sa Canada si Perry nagpanting ang tenga nito at kundi napigilan ni Carding ay baka nasuntok nito ang bagong bisor. Pansinin lagi ang mga Pinoy sa mga pagawaan dahil sa kanilang kasipagan at walang reklamo kahit na anong ipagawa. Bukod sa mga Pinoy ay may mga iba pang mga lahi ang nagtatrabaho sa planta kagaya ng mga tagaIndia na tinatawag nilang mga pana, russians, polish, itim, intsik at mga galing sa middle east. Iba’t-iba rin ang kasanayan at ugali ng mga lahing ito sa pagtatrabaho. May kanya-kanyang istilo kung paano mapapagaan ang kanilang trabaho. Kanya-kanyang istilo ng panggugulang.

Pero iba talaga ang pinoy bukod sa masipag ay matapat pa sa trabaho. Magaang katrabaho dahil palakaibigan bukod pa sa masigla’t masaya pang kausap. Kaya siguro laging madali maka-adjust ang pinoy kahit saan ito mapadpad saanmang lugar sa mundo. “Hamo na yan, ganyan talaga ang mga salita dito. Kung gusto mong matutunang maging Canadian, dalawa lang ang pwede mong memoryaduhing salita: fuck at please. Siyempre huwag mong pagsabayin ha dahil baka tuluyan ka at umuwi kang luhaan”, ang nakangiting bulong ni Carding kay Perry. “Well, you fucking guys are fucking hardworking. So I fucking need you on weekends for a fucking overtime work. Would you like to do fucking overtime this fucking saturday and sunday?”, ang walang habas na engles ni bisor na tinubuan yata ng fuckfuck sa dila. “Fucking right, doggie! We’ll fucking take it” ang pagmamayabang namang sagot ni Carding. Natawa na rin si Perry at sabay tampal sa likod ni Carding parang sinasabing okey na siya. Napangiti na rin lang si Perry sa bisor niyang kastilaloy. Nginitian naman din siya nito. Paliwanag naman ni Carding na kapag nagustuhan siya ng bisor ay tiyak na laging mabibigyan siya nito ng overtime kumpara sa ibang mga galing sa agency na kagaya niya. Halos lahat ng mga trabahador sa pagawaang iyon ay galing ng agency. Ganun din si Perry. Kinailangan niyang dumaan sa agency. Nalaman niya iyon sa kwento ng isang Pinoy na naninirahan din sa apartment na tinitirahan niya nung unang linggo niya sa Canada sa paghahanap ng trabaho. Ang lahat daw ng mga Pinoy ay nagsimula sa agency anupamang propesyon ang natapos nila sa Pinas. Iyon din daw ang magbibigay sa kanya ng Canadian experience na laging hinahanap sa mga nag-aaplay ng trabaho lalo na sa mga malalaking kumpanya. Yun pala ang canadian experience na tinatawag. Napakunot-noo na lamang siya dahil hindi niya maintindihan na dapat hingin ito agad kung bago ka pa lamang namang salta sa Canada. Bukod sa pagsasalansan ng mga curtain holders ay binibilang din nila Perry at Carding ang bawat curtain holder habang ipinapack ito sa mga crate boxes. Ang bawat isang kahon ay may dalawang libong piraso ang laman. Matapos na bilangin ay irerecord ito sa Quality Control (QC) logbook. Dahil pagkatapos ng maghapon ang QC Logbook na ito ang siyang magsasabi kung nakamagkano ang production output ng buong araw. Hindi dapat magkulang ang isang kahon - mas mabuti pang sumobra. Yun daw ang laging nirereklamo ng mga customer kapag kulang ang natanggap na order. Pero kapag sobra siyempre walang reklamo ang kustomer. Ang nagrereklamo naman ay ang Production Manager nila, ang kastilaloy na may dilang “f”, dahil kung masyadong maraming sobra apektado ang inventory ng mga materyales. Kaya dapat talaga sakto lang ang nailalagay

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sa mga kahon. At doon naman mahusay ang mga trabahador na mga Pinoy, ayon sa Production Manager na tumanggap sa kanya para magtrabaho sa pagawaang iyon. Sakto lang at masinsin sa pagpapakete ng mga curtain holders. Maliksi at malinis sa pagsasalansan. Kaya gusto ng mga puti na magtrabaho ang mga pinoy. Maasahan. Hindi naging madali ang pagkakatanggap ni Perry sa trabaho lalo’t bagong salta siya sa Canada. Pero lahat daw naman ng mga Pinoy na dumating ay dumaan sa butas ng karayom bago nakatagpo nang magandang trabaho. May mga inhenyero, duktor, nars at kahit titser na walang makuhang mga trabaho kaya napilitang maging mga manggagawa sa manupaktura gaya ng pagawaan ng sapatos, keso, gatas, at iba pa. Minsan habang nakabreaktime sila ni Carding napag-usapan nila ang tungkol dito. Nabasa pa nga niya sa diyaryo yung isang duktor na nagpasyang magmaneho na lamang ng taxi kasi hindi matanggap-tanggap sa pagduduktor niya. Kinakailangan pa nitong mag-aral muli at ayon doon sa nabasa niya tantiya nito ay tatagal pa ito ng anim na taon bago maging duktor samantalang kilalang duktor ito sa bansang pinanggalingan nito. Napapailing na lamang siya sa mga ganoong mga kwento. “Saan ka sa atin Carding?” tanong niya habang kumakain ng pananghalian sa labas sa may gilid ng planta. “San Juan ako sa atin, Perry. Sampung taon na ako dito. Akala ko’y engineer ang makukuha kong trabaho pero marami pa palang dapat ayusin at maraming hinihingi bago ko magawa ito. Electrical Engineer ako sa atin. Boss ako doon, pero dito busabos ako.” Sabay hagalpak ng tawa. “Tsaka alam mo Perry, pupusta ako lahat ng mga trabahador sa mga pagawaan mga propesyunal yang mga iyan. May duktor na taxi driver, may titser na server sa Mcdo, maraming mga ganyan dito!” dagdag pa ni Carding. Naramdaman agad ni Perry na pinagtatawanan lamang ni Carding ang sinapit ngunit sa loob nito’y ramdam ang pagkaawa nito sa sarili. Biruin mo nga naman kung boss ka sa atin tapos pagdating dito’y utusan ang tingin niya sa sarili? Kaya pala ganun na lang ang panggagalaiti niya pag siya’y naduduro nung dating bisor kapag tinatawag ito. Noong una’y hindi ito maintindihan ni Perry ngunit laging may paliwanag si Carding sa kanya minsang naitanong niya ito. “Wala yun sa kanila. Kung dinuro ka nila e di duruin mo rin pag may kailangan kang itanong o sabihin. Sa atin sumusutsot tayo sa taong gusto nating kunin ang atensyon pero dito kabastusan naman sa kanila yun. Dito duduruin ka ng hintuturo upang tawagin ka. Kaya pag naisip kong nakakalalaki sila e nakakapika nga talaga. Alam mo naman tayong

mga pinoy pag ganun wala nang salitaan - uupakan agad natin. Kaso dito simbilis pa sa alasais ang dating ng pulis pag may rambolan. Kaya di ko na rin lang pinapansin. Nasanay na din ako para walang gulo. Tutal ito na ang napili nating bayan.” Makailang beses na rin kasi na dinuro si Perry kahit mismong mga katrabaho niya at isang beses naman’y yung dati nilang bisor. Nung unang gawin sa kanya ito’y talagang pakiramdam niya’y aso siyang tinatawag. Kaya hindi niya ito nilingon at kunyari’y di niya nakita. Iba talaga ang pakiramdam kapag tinatawag ka nang paduro - mas gugustuhin pang sutsutan siya o kahit isigaw na lang pangalan niya. Kaso mo sabay na ginawa sa kanya ang pagsigaw sa pangalan niya at pagduro ng hintuturo sa kanya. Kung nagiging sibat lang sana ang sulyap o tingin marami na siyang napuruhan sa planta. Asintado pa naman siya. Pero ngayon naiintindihan na niya ang lahat. Next time na duruin siya gitnang daliri na ang gagamitin niya. At natawa siya nang lihim sa sarili. Kahit biro ito’y iniisip niyang baka naman mapasama siya at mafire-out kung gagawin niya ito. Kailangan pa naman niya nang matatag na trabaho dahil sa buwanang pinadadala niya sa kanyang pamilya sa Pinas bukod pa sa bayad sa inuupahan niyang kuwarto. Ang payo nga sa kanya ng kasamahan niya sa apartment na tinitirahan niya ay tiis-tiis lang at mag-ipon lang ng canadian experience. Lahat naman ng mga pinoy ay dumaan dito kaya pwede na siyang maghanap nang mas maganda at malaking pasahod na trabaho basta magkaroon lang siya ng canadian experience anupaman ito. Noong unang salta ni Carding, kwento niya ay nagtrabaho ito sa nasunog na gusali ng Union Carbide sa downtown Toronto. Kadarating lamang niya mula sa Pinas bitbit ang kanyang buong pamilya. Mabuti na lamang at may bayaw siyang bisor nagtatrabaho doon kaya ipinasok si Carding pansamantala. “Marami kaming mga Pinoy doon. Siguro mga sampu. Dahil hindi naman napuruhan ng apoy yung gusali kaya tinatanggal namin ang uling na naiwan sa mga dingding ng loob ng gusali gamit ang basahang desabon”, ang pagmamalaking kwento ni Carding. “Aba, $8 kada oras kaya malaki-laki din ang kinita ko doon. Sa loob dalawang linggo kumita din ako ng mga $600. Sobrang ngalay lang kasi maghapon kaming babad sa pag-is-is ng uling. E, wala, e, ganoon talaga. “Sunggab lang nang sunggab kahit anong trabaho”, hagalpak pang tawa ni Carding. Pagkakatapos nilang magtanggal ng mga uling sa dingding, kwento pa ni Carding, ay katapos-tapusan naman’y parang siya naman ang nagkulay uling. Makapal din ang uling na tinatanggal niya sa dingding at umuusok pa nga ang ilang bahagi ng gusali. Dalawang linggo lang naman si Carding doon at nang makakuha ng mas malaking pasahod sa gawaan ng curtain holder, hindi na siya umalis dito.

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Maya-maya lamang ay dumating pa ang dalawang Pinoy sa kanilang lugar. Nakiumpok na rin sa kanila ni Carding. Lunchtime kaya mas mahaba-haba ang kwentuhan at pagkikilala. “O, talagang itong si Carding basta kainan parang sasakyan sa 401lagpas sandaan kung tumakbo”, ang pagbibiro ni Ricky sabay tawa nang malakas. “O, Ricky, kanina pa kita sinisigawan doon sa lugar mo. Hindi mo yata nadinig, ingay kasi sa planta”, ang pagdadahilan ni Perry. Tatlong taon pa lamang si Ricky sa planta. Siya bale ang forklift driver pero hindi lang yun trabaho niya. Pinalitan niya yung dating forklift driver na sinibak dahil nabundol ang garage door ng delivery at purchasing department. Si Ricky ang nagpoforklift ng mga crate boxes na ready for shipment at dinadala niya sa warehouse. Pero dahil ang sikip ng daanan papunta doon hindi magkasya ang forklift kaya madalas gumamit na lamang ito ng dolly. “E, ikaw ba, ‘preng Ricky, saan ka unang nagtrabaho bago ito?” ang pag-uusisa ni Perry. “Dati sa isang refrigerated warehouse ako nagtatrabaho, ayus naman din, kaso sobrang lamig doon. Tagasalansan ako ng mga binalot na ham. Yung mga binebenta tuwing pasko. Kami’ng gumawa noon. Pero sa sobrang lamig e mangangatal buong katawan mo kahit na makapal ang suot. Kailangan kasi naka-white gown kami dahil para malinis daw tingnan at hindi macontaminate yung mga ham. Kaya bawal ang maduming damit o pantalon. May sarili kaming damit na gamit doon. $9.50 bigayan,” ani Ricky. “Kaso nga lang mapapasma ka doon kasi kapag summer at breaktime, nasa labas ka e mainit doon tapos malamig naman sa loob. Kaya babad ako doon dahil minsan 12 hours pa nga tarabaho lalo na kung maraming order. Nakow muntik na akong mapulmonya - buti na lang natanggap ako dito mas malaki pa ang sahod kaysa doon”, banat pa ni Ricky. “Etong si Caloy ang tanungin mo Perry. UP gradweyt yan! Matindi yan, Perry!”, ang tulak ni Carding. Nangingiti lang si Caloy- ang isa sa pintor sa planta. Research and Development Chemist sa isang pagawaan ng pintura si Caloy sa Pinas. Marami na raw siyang inaplayang trabahong kapareho ng sa Pinas kaso hindi siya matanggap-tanggap. Hinahanapan siya ng Canadian experience na kagaya din nang iba pang mga Pinoy na propesyunal. “Sa Tim’s dati ako nagtatrabaho. Matagal din ako doon, siguro mga tatlong taon din yun. Kaso mo kailangan ko na ring maghanap ng mas mataas ang sahod kundi mahihirapan kaming magpaaral ng mga bata. Si Misis kasi’y hindi naman regular ang trabaho sa Delta Inn Hotel”,

paliwanag ni Caloy. “Siyempre mas malaki bigay sa akin dito $14 samantalang sa Tim Hortons, $10.50 lang ako. Kaya kahit hindi chemist trabaho ko dito malaki ang bigay kaya sunggab na, he he he”, ang pagkwekwento ni Caloy. Marami ang mga kwentong kagaya ng kina Carding, Ricky at Caloy ang nadinig na ni Perry sa apartment na tinitirahan niya. Mga kwento ng pakikipagsapalaran ng mga kababayang nabaon sa factory at hindi na napraktis ang mga propesyon nila sa Pinas. Kagaya din niyang kung sa Pinas magtatrabaho pihadong Engineer siya doon pero kaso nga hindi naman magkasya ang sinisweldo niya. Kulang pantustos sa pamilya dahil sa taas ng mga bilihin at mga pang-araw-araw na gastusin ng pamilya. At least, dito sa Canada, trabaho ka lang nang trabaho kahit paano napagkakasya. Pero siyempre wala ding pinagkaiba sa trato. Manggagawa pa rin siyang kabilang sa malawak na hanay ng manggagawang pinagsasamantalahan saan mang sulok ng daigdig siya madako. Kahit paano nakakaraos kahit hindi pa rin sapat ang sweldong natatanggap e mantakin mo dolyar na yun ha! Ang hindi nga lang niya makayang mairaos e yung lungkot. Yung hapo at pagal na pakiramdam ng puso. Pero kung nakaya nina Carding, Caloy at Ricky pati yun e di kakayanin na rin niya. Naalala ni Perry nang nag-aplay siya sa trabaho . Dami nang hindi niya alam sa bayang pinili niyang puntahan. Sa paghahanap pa lang ng trabaho ay nahirapan na siya kahit pa sabihin at iyabang niya sa sariling nakatapos pa naman siya ng inhenyero sa Pinas. Pero kunsabagay yun din naman ang naging tiket niya kung bakit nakarating siya sa Canada. Marami daw engineers na kailangan. Kaya naman sandamakmak na mga inhenyero ang nakasabay niyang pumila sa Canadian embassy sa Makati nung nag-aaplay siya ng visa. Siguradong lahat iyon ay naaprub. Pero siyempre kagaya niyang andito na sa Canada hinahanapan naman siya ng lintsyak na Canadian experience na iyan. Kaya ngayong nakarating na siya sa Canada lagi pa rin niyang tinatanong ang sarili kung naging tama ba ang desisyon niya ng pangingibang-bayan. Kung mas masaya ba siya kung hindi na lang siya umalis. Maraming mga “kung” ang nabubuo lagi sa kanyang utak lalo’t sa mga panahon ng pag-iisa. Doon niya nadirinig nang husto ang kanyang sarili . Doon niya nararamdaman ang kalayuan ng bansang kanyang sinapit. Na kaylayo-layo pala talaga niya. Yung pakiramdam na itinapon siya. Ganun din kaya ang pakiramdam nina Carding, Caloy at Ricky? Pero siyempre lagi namang kinakaya niya ang lahat. Survivor kasi siya. “Do you have a Canadian experience?”, ang tanong ni Mr. Wilson kay Perry. Si Mr. Wilson ang may-ari ng agency na nagpapadala ng mga trabahador sa mga pagawaang hawak nito sa Scarborough, isang malaking siyudad sa loob ng Toronto. Nagkalat ang mga planta sa kalakhang Scarborough

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ngunit hindi uso ang magpunta sa mga kumpanyang ito para mag-aplay ng trabaho dahil may sari-sariling mga agency na tagasuplay ng kanilang mga trabahador. Isa sa mga agencies na iyon ay ang kay Mr. Wilson, na malapit lang sa apartment ni Perry kaya hindi siya nahirapang puntahan. Malaking pasasalamat na lang niyang hindi na siya nagpapamasahe sa bus para lang makarating sa mga agencies. Ano daw ang tanong? Napatanga siya. Hindi siya handa sa tanong na iyon. Isang linggo pa lang ang pagkahimpil niya dine sa Canada kaya ang experience pa lang niya ay ang pagkabisado sa pagsakaysakay sa mga bus na tamang ruta pabalik at papunta sa kanyang tirahan. Kung kaya hindi niya alam ang isasagot. Kung kaya sa halip na sagot ay tanong din ang sagot niya. “What Canadian experience?”, banat naman niyang sagot sa engles. Pakiramdam niya naasintado niya si Mr. Wilson. Aba naman naku kung makaengles si puti kaya kuntodo din na tumbasan niya ito ng engles na inaral pa niya kagabi. “Well, have you had any work experience in Canada before?” ang tanong muli ni Mr. Wilson. “No, this is my first job. I just arrived a week ago” “I am sorry but we need someone who had previous job experience in Canada” “Well if you will not hire me, how can I ever get a Canadian job experience? But if you will give me a chance I am willing to be trained so I can have a Canadian experience”, ang pa-impress na pagpapaliwanag ni Perry kay Mr. Wilson. Sa totoo lang kundi lang dahil malaki ang paniniwala niya na may human rights kahit si Mr Wilson e, natanggalan na niya ito ng balbas na nakalaylay sa bilugan nitong mukha. Nakakapikon na kasi siya. Ano daw Canadian experience? E di ba nga mag-iisanglinggo pa nga lang siya sa Canada. Ang maibibigay lang niyang Canadian experience ay yung pagsampa-sampa niya sa mga bus na madalas siyang maiwan. Ang maibabahagi lamang niya ang iyong mga karanasan sa loob ng isang linggo ng paghahanap ng trabaho mula Scarborough hanggang sa downtown Toronto na inabot siya ng gabi dahil naligaw siya sa pagsakay sa subwaymalay ba niya kung saan ang north at south, e nasa loob ka ng tren e paano naman niya matutunton ang pauwi. Kaya ang masasabi lamang niya ay iyong pakiramdam ng pagod at hapo sa pag-asam na makahanap ng trabaho kahit ano na lang. Habang nasa pagmumunimuni si Perry mapapansin niyang nakatingin sa kanya si Mr Wilson at mapapangiti ito sa kanya. Pakiramdam naman

ni Perry ay nakuha niya ang loob nito. Hindi naman siya madasalin pero nang oras na iyon napadasal siya na sana’y matanggap siya sa trabaho dahil kung hindi totohanin niyang higitin ang bawat himaymay ng balbas nito sa mukha at gawing french fries at ipalamon sa kanya. Hahahaha, ang malakas na tawang biglang naglanding sa kanyang utak. Hindi niya napansing napatawa nga siya na agad naman niyang napigil. Tantiya niya’y may umalingawngaw na halakhak sa kanyang nilikhang imahinasyon. “Did you bring your resume with you?” ang sunod na tanong ni Mr. Wilson Tumango naman kaagad si Perry at iniabot kay Mr. Wilson ang kanyang limang pahinang resume. Ang resume na tiniyaga niyang gawin sa Human Resource Development Canada Employment (HRDC) center kung saan libre ang magprint ng mga resumes, libre ang gumamit ng computer at mag-internet, libre magbasa ng diyaryo.Lahat-lahat. Libre. Libre. Libre lahat except ang pagkain at tirahan. Naatasan ang ahensiyang ito na umagapay sa mga bagong salta sa Canada na naghahanap ng trabaho o nagbibigay ng libreng kunsultasyon para maka-adjust ang mga bagong dating na migrante sa paninirahan sa Canada. Doon niya ginawa ang limang pahinang resume niya. Pagkakamali niya’y hindi siya dumalo sa libreng seminar kung paano gumawa ng resume canadian style. Dangkasi’y nitong natanggap na siya sa trabaho napag-alaman niya kay Carding na ang mga resume dito sa Canada ay paiklian di kagaya sa atin na pahabaan. Lahat ilalagay masabi lang na me experience. Kaya nakakapagod magbasa ng resume sa atin dahil kwento ng buhay ni Dakuykoy ang mababasa sa resume. Dito sa Canada, mas maikli at direkta, mas ok. Mas me laman at masinsin ang gusto nila. Sa job interview na lang pwedeng maglinaw kung ano ang nilalaman ng resume. Parang ngayon na hinihingi ni Mr. Wilson ang kanyang resume. Na kahit limang pahina ang kanyang resume, e, mukhang naimpress naman si Mr. Wilson sa kanya. Dapat naman! Kasi’y engineering naman ang natapos ni Perry sa Pinas. Labimpitong taon na sinanay sa Research and Development sa pagawaan ng pintura at laging representante ng kanilang kumpanya sa mga conferences sa Japan, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia at Vietnam. Naikot din niya ang buong Pinas mula timog, hilaga, kanluran at silangan dahil basta pintura siya ang eksperto dito. Nahinto na lamang ang kanyang mga biyaya sa kumpanya nang pamunuan niya ang unyon sa kanilang pagawaan. Doon na siya dumanas nang kung ano-anong pahirap hanggang sa magipit na ito sa pinansiya. Dahil laking hirap at sanay talaga sa hirap, hindi ininda ni Perry ang panggigipit ng kumpanya sa kanya. Hanggang sa dulo nang dumating ang negosasyon para sa muling pagbubukas ng Collective Bargaining Agreement o CBA , hindi ito sumuko. Na sa huli nama’y naging matagumpay nang maipanalo ito. Nagdesisyon na lamang siyang mangibang-bayan nang mismong

Oya Mang-oyan | CANADIAN EXPERIENCE

mga kapatid na niya sa ‘tate ang nagpresentang mag-lie low muna siya at subukang mag-abroad. Bukod pa sa halos isudlong siya papuntang airport ng kanyang asawa para patusin ang mga anunsiyo at mga ads sa Philcoa hinggil sa Canada immigration. Lumalaki na raw mga bata at lumalaki pati gastusin. At saka lahat ng mga kaibigan niyang propesyunal ay nagsilikas na sa kung saan-saang bahagi ng mundo. Hindi naman talaga sapat ang kita niya para matustusan ang lumalaking pamilya kaya pinatos na rin niya ang pangingibang-bayan. Welcome to Canada, Engr. Alfredo (Perry) Divinagracia Masantol! Ito ang nasa utak niya nang inabot ni Perry ang resume kay Mr. Wilson. Katumbas nito ay sinabihan siya ni Mr. Wilson na tatawagan na lamang siya nito. Kaso wala naman siyang telepono kaya inabot na lang niya ang cellphone number ng kanyang kaibigang Pinoy sa apartment na tinitirahan niya. Pero hindi naman natagalan ang kanyang paghihintay at ilang araw lang ay pinatawag na siya ni Mr. Wilson. Tanggap siya sa trabaho sa pagawaan ng mga curtain holders. $10.50 kada oras. Di na masama dahil sa kwenta niya’y makakaraos na siya sa padala niya kada buwan sa kanyang pamilyang naiwan sa Pinas. Kahit paano’y may papasok na pera sa kanya. Paubos na din kasi ang dala niyang pera. Nagsasawa na rin siyang umistambay sa Scarborough Town Centre mall kung saan doon siya nagpapahinga pagkaraan ng maghapong paghahanap ng trabaho. Kung saan-saan na rin kasi siya nakakarating at sa paglalakbay niya’y nakabisado niya ang buong Scarborough at kahit ang downtown Toronto. Nalilibang din naman siya sa mga pagsakaysakay sa bus, sa subway train at cable train. Marami na rin siyang nakilalang mga Pinoy na nakakasakay niya. Tuwing Sabado nga , pansin niyang laging may mga kababayan siyang Pinay na may mga bitbit na maletang dala-dala. Akala niya nung una’y mga bagong dating sila. Napag-alaman niyang mga caregivers sila na nakaday-off tuwing sabado at nakikitira sa mga kaibigan o kamag-anakan para hindi sila nakapirmi sa kanilang mga amo. Sabado at Linggo lang sila nakakadayoff. Marami siyang nakasakay sa Kennedy subway station na mga caregivers nung mga panahong kung saan-saan siya nakakarating para maghanap ng trabaho. Pinanghinayanganan na lang niya na sana’y nakakwentuhan man lamang niya sila nang matagal. Lalo’t nung mga panahon naghahanap din siya ng kababayan. Mga kababayang pwede niyang pagsabihan ng mga pakiramdam. Silang pwedeng magtiyaga na makinig sa kanyang mga kwento at karanasan. Nakasasabik talagang makipagkwentuhan sa mga kababayan. Welcome to Canada, Engr. Alfredo (Perry) Divinagracia Masantol! Nagulat na naman siya sa mga nagsasalita sa kanyang utak. Muntik na niyang madagukan ang nakakatabi niya sa bus sa pagkagulat kapag

bumubulusok sa kanyang utak ang mahiwagang salitang ito. Pakiramdam niya’y nanalo siya ng sandamakmak na kaperahan. Pakiramdam niya’y sinagip siya sa kahirapan sa bayang pinanggalingan. Kaya CONGRATS, ENGR. Aflredo (PERRY) DIVINAGRACIA MASANTOL! Martes na siya nakapagsimula sa trabaho. Sa maghapong trabaho’y patang-pata ang katawan ni Perry. Tuusin mong dalawang libong bakal na curtain holders ang naipakete niya sa mga crate boxes at bawat araw ay nakakalabinglima siyang kahon. Ngayon lang siya nakapagsalita ng “Ay Apo ngarud! Mahabaging langit! Que horror! Sussantisimamaryosep! Akala niya magiging maganda na ang kanyang buhay sa ibang bayan. Akala niya totoo ang himala. Akala niya may himala! Pero wala. Wala. Wala. Walang himala. Ang himala ay nasa puso. Siyempre naiisip lang niya ito kaya yung katabi niyang trabahador na pana nakakunot noo sa kanya. Siya naman napakunot noo din. Tuusin mo ba namang may masangsang na amoy-gomang nilaga sa imburnal. Wow, bakit ba naman sa dinami-dami nang makakatabi niya e may aroma pa. Hatsing! Kunyaring bahin para umalis ang katabi niya. Pero seryoso talagang nakaramdam na siya lagi ng ngalay sa likod at braso. Minsan naman’y namamanhid ang kanyang likod at balakang pagkatapos ng walong oras na trabaho. Kaya gustuhin man niya’y hindi na nito magawang sumama pa sa mga katrabahong Pinoy na inaaya siyang sumama sa para magkwentuhan at magkape. Nahihiya na siya kina Carding, Caloy at Ricky. Basted lagi sila sa imbitasyon. Bukod doon’y ayaw na niyang gumastos pa lalo’t linggo-linggo’y nagpapadala siya ng pera sa Pinas. Gusto na rin niya kaagad makauwi para matulog at magpahinga. Naghahanap na rin kasi ng papag ang kanyang likod para mailapat at maidantay ang mga paa niyang namitig dahil nakatayo siya buong maghapon sa pagtanggal at pagsasalansan ng mga curtain holders. Tapos maaga din siyang gumigising dahil hinahabol niya ang oras ng bus na saktong dating at alis sa mga antayan ng bus. Minsan’y muntikmuntikanan na niyang hindi maabutan ang 5:30AM na bus buti na lang at hinintuan siya nito. Kakilala na rin siya ng bus driver dahil sa araw-araw na siya ang unang sakay nito. Kakilala palang pero hindi naman ganoon ka-close. Lagi siyang maagang pumasok dahil halos araw-araw ay may napafireout sa pinagtatrabuhan niya. Ma-late lang ay hindi na pinagtatrabaho at pinauuwi na lang. Dahil madali naman tumawag sa mga agencies ang mga kumpanya upang magpadala nang bagong trabahador. May pana na pinauwi dahil nahuling natutulog sa isang sulok habang nagkikiskis ng kalawanging bakal bago ito isubo sa chemical treatment section. Ang siste kasi yung mga bakal na pinadadaan sa chemical treatment ay dapat walang mga makakapal na kalawang dahil hindi ito kayang tanggalin sa degreasing bath o yung lawa ng kemikal na pantanggal ng mga langis, kalawang at mga dumi ng bakal. Ang mga bakal kasing ito na nakaimbak ay kulapol ng mga

Oya Mang-oyan | CANADIAN EXPERIENCE

langis o industrial oil para hindi kalawangin kung maiimbak nang matagal at hindi agad gagamitin sa production line. Maraming kumpanya kagaya ng pinagtatrabahuhan ni Perry ang nag-iimbak ng mga hilaw na materyales kasi kung bumibili sila ng bultuhan ay mas nakakatipid sila sa halaga ng materyales batay sa volume discount. Mas maraming order mas maraming discount. Mas nakamumura sila. Kaya doon sa pagawaan ng curtain holders may isang section na kung saan kinikiskis ang mga bakal bago isalang sa chemical treatment. Madalas nakapwesto doon ay mga babae. Indian o pana, pinoy, afghan, sri lankan, tsekwa, polish, russian, iba’t-ibang lahing karamihan ay mga kababaihan. Hindi nilalagay doon ang mga lalaki dahil sabi nila’y walang tiyaga ang mga lalaki sa ganoong trabaho. Siyempre hindi rin naman totoo yun. Noong unang dating niya sa pagawaan doon siya sa kiskisan inilagay. Pero bago matapos ang maghapon ay hinugot si Perry doon at pinurbahan sa production line. Nang mapag-alaman niya’y si Carding ang nagrequest sa kanya doon sa production line. Dati palang may kapartner si Carding doon na itim. Kaso’y mainitin ang ulo nito kaya nung minsang mauntog ito sa hangers na nakasabit sa moving conveyor, ibinato nito ang hanger at natamaan ang isang trabahador na tsekwa. Inireklamo ang itim at sinibak agad-agad. Grabe no, itim ng budhi! Masipag naman daw ang itim na trabahador na ito, gaya ng kwento sa kanya ni Carding. Ngalang, talagang pagtinopak mas matindi pang magfuckfuck kumpara sa bisor nilang kastilaloy. Si Carding lang ang tumagal sa kanya. Dahil wala namang imik si Carding kapag tinopak ito. Tinatawanan lang ni Carding si Thompson- ang apelyido ng itim na trabahador. Mas matagal si Thompson kaysa kay Carding ng dalawang taon. Kaya sanay na sanay sa pagsasalansan, pagsasabit at pagtatanggal. Lamang nga, pag may mga biglaang insidente, gaya nung nauntog ito sa hanger ay talagang parang hayup kung maka-reak. Kumbaga sumigaw na ang director ng CUT! Aba e ang kumag nag-inarte pa, as in pang-award kaya hayun muntik nang matigpas ang ulo ng intsik. Aba naman naku sa lakas ba naman ng pagkakatalsik at sa bigat ng bakal na hanger na yun! Kaya pasalamat na lang si Carding na buti na lang hindi pagawaan ng baril ang planta. Kundi baka marami nang nabaril si Thompson. Dahil bawat topak niya gatilyo ng baril ang mapaipindot niya, araykupo, laking eskandalo. Pero siyempre buti na rin lang mabilis sa pag-ilag at pagsalag si Carding. Pinoy kasi, maabilidad ang pangisi-ngising pagkwekwento ni Carding kay Perry. Nakaisang-taon din siyang nagtrabaho sa pagawaan ng curtain holders. I mean siya, si Perry, oo siya - nakaisangtaon. Nang tawagan siya para sa isang trabaho sa Stratford bilang QC Lab Tech sa pasahod na $19.75

kada oras, wala nang patumpik-tumpik pa’y sinunggaban ito ni Perry. Kaya nang ayain siya ng mga Pinoy para sa kape at kwentuhan , sumama na siya para na rin masabi ang plano niyang pag-quit sa trabaho sa curtain holders. Tuwang-tuwa naman ang mga Pinoy na kasamahan niyang sina Caloy, Ricky at lalo na si Carding. Napakaswerte raw niya’t hindi siya natulad sa kanilang wala nang nalipatang trabaho o linyado sa trabahong iniwan sa Pinas. “Pinagpala ka Perry! ‘Tamona, sabi sa iyo, makakakuha ka rin ng magandang trabaho!”, sabay tampal sa kanyang likod ni Carding. “Kaya bukas, SANA’Y MALASING MO KAMI!”, ang gatol naman nina Caloy at Ricky na pakanta pa ang pagkakasabi. NapaPSST naman si Perry sa mga kaibigan. Ibig sabihin ay ‘wag masyadong malakas ang kwentuhan dahil nasa loob sila ng Tim Hortons at baka maingayan sa kanila ang mga tao doon. Kunsabagay sa isip ni Perry oks lang na maingay tapos ayun - biglang may bumulusok na namang: Welcome to Canada, Engr. Alfredo (Perry) Divinagracia Masantol! CONGRATULATIONS! Huling araw ng trabaho niya bukas kaya kahit hindi pa talaga siya nakakaipon ng pera ay siya na ang naglibre ng kanilang kape. Hanggang medium double double lang ang kaya niya. Tawanan ang lahat - hindi pa man daw ay natututo na siyang maging kuripot. “Bukas pa naman ang talagang huling araw mo, kaya bukas ka na lang namin babawian. Biyernes bukas kaya mas masarap kung bukas ka na lang maglibre”, pangungulit sa kanya ni Carding na hindi maitago ang lungkot. Kahit paano’y naging magkaibigan na rin sila ni Perry. Isang taon din iyon at para kay Carding ang isang taong pagkikilala ay malaking batak na sa kanya upang ituring siyang di iba kundi pamilya na rin kagaya ng turingan nilang mga Pinoy sa planta. Mag-aalasiyete na ng gabi nang matapos ang mahabang kwentuhan sa Tim Horton’s. Bukas babalik siyang muli sa planta, ang isang taong nagbigay sa kanya ng Canadian experience. Eto nga marahil ang naging dahilan kung bakit natanggap siya sa bagong lilipatan sa Stratford, Ontario, mga dalawang oras ang biyahe mula sa Scarborough. Inisip din niyang marahil sa napakalapit na kalangitan, kung kaya kahit hindi siya madasalin ay madaling madinig ng langit ang panalangin ng kanyang kapuso, este kapatid, kapamilya? Oops puso pala (nubayan daming sablay). Ngunit alam din niyang hindi dahil lamang sa dasal kung bakit siya nakuha sa trabaho. Sa interbyu, ipinaglaban din niya ang kanyang kakayanan kahit pa iba ang kulay ng kanyang balat o hindi katunog ng mga puti ang kanyang pag-eengles. Nakipaglaban siya sa kakayanan na may husay siyang wala naman sila. Yung tapang ng loob at katwirang may batayan ay mga katangiang natutunan niya sa pag-uunyon. Kung kinakailangan kaya

Oya Mang-oyan | CANADIAN EXPERIENCE

niya muli itong paalpasin sa kanyang sarili sa bagong buhay na babakahin na malayo sa unang sinaltahan nyang lugal sa Canada. Kung kinakailangan niyang lumaban upang makayanan niyang magpatuloy na mabuhay sa ibang bayan kagaya nina Carding, Caloy at Ricky at iba pang mga pinoy na nakilala niya sa lunsod ng Scarborough. Silang mga kababayang patuloy na nakikipaglaban para mabuhay nang marangal. Kinabukasan ay leyt na nang nagising si Perry. Hindi na niya nakuha pang maligo at manuklay man lamang. Dali-dali siyang naghanda ng kaniyang baon at nagmamadaling nagsuot ng safety boots. Agad-agad na nanaog nagbabakasakaling maabutan pa ang 5:30AM bus. Pagkadating niya sa bus stop ay siya namang alis nito (Ngeek, ibig sabihin 5:25am ka na umalis ng bahay). Tiningnan ni Perry ang relos niya at mag-aalas-siyete na ng umaga. (Ganun? Ibig sabihin pala 6:55 ka umalis ng apartment, e talagang maleleyt ka Ta Pet, este Perry) Naipangako niyang manlilibre siya kina Carding, Caloy at Ricky pagkatapos ng trabaho. Kaya napalinstyak siya’t di niya naabutan ang bus. Napabuntunghininga siya at napatunghay muli siya sa langit na kaybaba-baba. Mangha siya sa distansya nito sa kaniyang mga uluhan. Napakalapit ng langit -parang mabubundol na nito ang mga puno. Hindi kagaya ng langit sa Pinas na parang ang layolayo. Pero dito sa Canada ang lapitlapit. Parang kaydaling dukhawin. Parang lahat ng dasal madirinig. Magdadasal sana siyang muli sa kaylapit na kalangitan at baka magmadyik at balikan siya ng bus. Ngunit wala na siyang magawa kundi tingnan na lamang ang papalayong bus na kinain na ng mahabang kalsada.

TULA POETRY

Kristina de Guzman

This Nationalistic Pride 72

Reluctantly I admit This nationalistic pride Gets to me In a way that stains me With embarrassment How superficial It all is Did we all forget What we were fighting for? In the 19th century We ended Three hundred fifty years Of Spain’s colonial rule Just recently Not long after my birth We removed mandatory Spanish From schools Got rid of the Spanish Yet mestizo is synonymous with beauty Whitening products popular In the beauty section The light skinned star on TV The dark-skinned and indigenous Who fought And with whom we fight Relegated to sidekick, comic roles No one takes them seriously The great irony To brag about Spanish surnames And Spanish heritage With no understanding

Of Jose Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere Not knowing that Spanish was an official language In the Republic’s first constitution We point out how Tagalog, Our national language, Is composed of many Spanish sisters We thank the Spanish for our first colegios And the first universities in Asia Where still a few of us go We encourage all to learn American English Emphasize education Encourage the sale of the people’s talents and brains Ship them off in masses to work In any other country in the world Except there, where they came from Most of us attended Catholic masses faithfully So intense we’ve become more devoted to Christ Than Spain and Latin America put together We dismiss our Muslim brothers in Mindanao As uncivilized Then we began 40 years Of America as our heroic saviour From the Spanish villain And now stay silent about who rapes Who plunders to this day We copy our colonizers Rather than become true creators If you don’t agree I doubt you watch TFC The endless stream of telenovelas American-like talent shows We immigrate to a new country And since all we want to do is fit in We push our youth to excel in English We lose the desire to retain our own languages To further complicate this story Of Filipino identity

Kristina de Guzman | This Nationalistic Pride

The idea of Filipino Seems not too far from the idea of Asian, Eurasian or Pacific Islander Of Canadian Who are we really? Tagalog, the Philippines’ post-independence version Of a mother language Similar to Canada’s English Except, being made up of 7100 islands We’ve developed over 100 languages Surely not dialects Because people who speak Ilonggo, Cebuano, Bicolano, Chavacano, Waray-Waray Are less likely to comprehend the other Unlike French, Italian, and Spanish speakers Who understand each other quickly So yes, I admit with reluctance that This nationalistic pride Gets to me from time to time Not because I’m ashamed of Being from the Islands But because we pride ourselves In a false idea of sameness Rather than embrace our island identity Of multiple cultures I’m embarrassed because We try to mimic our colonizers We hunger for their validation When we get it Insecure children We jump on the bandwagon and brag to the world About the one who managed to cross-over To become an international success story Who happens to be Filipino So as a Filipino I end up feeling anti-nationalistic and It feels odd I can’t seem to catch on to this craze

Of promoting mediocrity And I can’t forget the numerous creative and original minds No, they never made it big in America, Regardless, they deserve our praise and recognition So, this nationalistic pride Will win me over When we can embrace our differences Learn about our past and appreciate it Rather than try erasing and re-writing it Push for unique talent and acknowledge it Rather than cast the spotlight On copycat superstars Because what makes us Flip Is a result of the past Of things both good and bad Followed by a fight to be different To be our own country Returning to its roots To be truly independent

mestizo Filipino with a non-Filipino parent; usually fair-skinned because parent is most often European or American TFC The Filipino Channel telenovela Television serial drama Flip a demeaning term used to refer to a Filipino, first used by racists to suggest Filipinos are crazy; now being reclaimed by Filipino youth

Jo SiMalaya Alcampo

No Dictionary Needed 76

My body remembers ‘ALIKA NA! – come here! PALO – beatings

SINTURON – leather belt

TSINELAS – house slippers PINGOT – pinched ears

SABUNOT – pulled hair

SINAKTAN MO AKO – you hurt me BASTOS – rude

TARANTADO – stupid ARAY! – oww!

SUNTOK SA BIBIG – fist striking mouth KUROT – twisted pinch BUWISIT – nuisance IYAK – to cry

TANGA – empty-headed

TAMA NA! TAMA NA! – stop it! stop it! PILAYAN – broken bones GAGO! – dummy

LINTIK NA! – lightning will strike you down

PUTANG-INA MO – your mother is a whore SUSMARYOSEP – jesus mary joseph SIRA ANG ULO MO – you’re crazy

WALANG MODO – you have no respect and I don’t even know how to speak Tagalog

Kristina de Guzman

Always on the Move Always on the move We tear away our roots And never take root At our final destinations Why? For one thing Family is still back home Barely getting by They count on me For their meals And college fees I want to take time Explore my new home But how can this be home? I work twice full-time Can’t muster up the energy Or enough dollar bills For any fun at all Always on the move We tear away our roots Not even knowing them Strangers in our mother country Here in my new city I see thin, beautiful buildings Elegant art galleries Museums filled with fascinating facts Can you believe They even capture pre-colonial history? Makes me glum to think That my motherland Fails to preserve its own story

Kristina de Guzman | Always on the move

Always being on the move Seems reason enough not to look back Ask any Filipino And almost all will mention The coming of the Spanish From Europe to the Islands As the part where the Philippine story starts Always on the move Now our people can be found All around the world But do we know about Filipino history in the state of Hawaii? The ones who laboured in sugar plantations, Or picked fruit during the Dirty Thirties What about our history in the Middle East? We’ve been there since the 1970s! What about Filipino history in Canada? Here, our population keeps doubling And we keep travelling Physically, we may be visible But our stories – they remain invisible We are colourful chameleons Just trying to blend in Always on the move Tearing away our roots But never taking root At our final destinations

Petronila Cleto

Bardo 1: In the last days of winter In the bardo slowly completing winter We begin to understand Lace bones of trees Thrown among blue sands Time’s fragile boat carrying us through Waving hours My map a card embossed with Concave shells of perfect days My fingers touch them and they Set free their indelible doves Your face lingers among leaves Searching for the energy that locked All together for a sphere of joyful light O exiled hearts our journey moves along The undercurrent beneath schedules The undercurrent beneath the carpet of leaves Breathing of our homeland The truth of our shared love With which we know we are always Nourished and alive Our roots enlace our boats To a pier of warm awareness Of common search for Time’s true heartland

Bardo: Tibetan Buddhist term for an in-between time; can also be metaphor for times when the usual is suspended (illness, meditation, retreat), external constraints are diminished, and spiritual progress is possible

Elena Sebastian

Confirmation 80

Kaharap ang Large-Black-Tim Horton’s coffee Hawak ang isang pirasong Puting papel Sabi nito’y “Confirmation Permanent Residence” At luha At tuwa. Dahil sa mahabang panahon na pangungulila, Mahahagkan na ang bagong yugto ng buhay At hirap. Sa Maple leaf country.

Tim Horton’s a well-known Canadian chain of coffee shops Maple Leaf country Canada

Marion Mendoza

THIS Divide, Confusion Torn between two worlds is what I face On an everyday basis My skin the colour of lightly roasted coffee beans is foreign even to myself I cannot cope with this divide and confusion They used to joke I am a coconut This hurts It is a constant reminder of the culture crisis that falls deep within my heart I am broken in half like the line that divides us Are you Asian, Aboriginal Cambodian Vietnamese Thai You name it They’ve said it Everything except for the culture In which I was half raised

Marion Mendoza | This Divide and Confusion I cannot cope with this divide and confusion

How can I be proud of a culture I barely know My physical being May speak Of what I might be But it is not Who I truly am My eyes have witnessed a blizzard of bodies Wide eyes gazing at me I am a single bean in a world of snow I cannot cope with this divide and confusion I look at my beautiful boys And wonder if they will also fall into the line The border that divides the body in which they have been created How will they cope with this divide and confusion?

Paulina Corpuz

Hindi Lahat ay Lunti at Ginto 83 Sa malayo, napakagandang tanawin Malawak na kaparangan Luntiang kabukiran Ginintuang palayan Pag-asa ng magsasaka Kabuhayan ng maralitang bayan Ngunit hindi laging lunti ang kabukiran May nakatagong karahasan Nagbabadyang kapahamakan Sa ilalim ng gintong palayan May batong nakaambal Nakakatalisod Sa bawat buhay na hatid ng Luntiang kabundukan at kaparangan May kahalong hirap, sigalot at kapahamakan Kahalintulad ng dinadayong bansa Hinahangad, pinapangarap Saganang buhay, rangya at yaman Pag-asang inaasam Sagot sa kahirapan Bigyang rangya ang naiwan Hirap, lungkot at dusa Maraming pagsubok Ang naghihintay

Paulina Corpuz | Hindi Lahat ay Lunti at Ginto Karampot na kita Kapalit ay santambak na dusa Paghihiwalay ng pamilya 84

Hindi lahat ay lunti at ginto Hindi lahat ay rangya at sagana Sa bawa’t saya, kapalit ay pawis, dugo at luha.

francesca esguerra | Farmer on Carabao

Oya Mang-oyan

DALAWANG KWENTO NG PAGPASLANG 86 1. Jennifer Laude, Transgender Balot siya ng pag-ibig nang gabing iyon Kapayapaan ang nakasulat sa kanyang mukha Walang dahilan ang pangamba sa kanyang dibdib Walang dahilan Upang gambalain kanyang ligaya. Payapa siyang batis Payapang pampang at Sapang ininuman ng hangin Salaming nakatunghay sa malapad na langit Ngunit gabi din iyon ng traydor na pagpaslang Berdugong sundalong kano Ang kumitil sa iyo, Jennifer Laude. Nilublob ka sa inidoro Hanggang doon’y panawan ng buhay Kumisay-kisay bawat iyong himaymay Bago yaon’y kinulata, binugbog Sinapok, sinikmuraan Hinampas hanggang matulala ang gabing payapa Waring libong suntok na lumanding Hanggang ang iyong mukha’y Namuong mamad sa dugo Sa kamay ng halimaw. Sa ngalan ng kasunduang Visiting Forces Agreement Sa ngalan ng Enhanced Defense Cooperative Agreement Sa ngalan ng imperyalistang gobyernong hindi sa iyo umalalay Sa ngalan ng walang katarungan’t hustisyang isinisigaw Ng buong sambayanan Anong hustisya ang daratal Dadapo sa puntod mo Jennifer? Anong katarungan ang makakamit Sa bawat tinanggap na hagupit

Sapagkat hindi na lamang ikaw ang pinaslang Kundi ang bayang kinamkaman na din ang soberanya Sa mga kasunduang nagsasabi: Kapag ang mga sundalong kano ay lumabag Sa sagradong saligang batas ng bansa Walang pagkakasala o mananagot sa kanila Dahil ang bayan mo Jennifer Laude Ang bayan mong mahal ay bangkay ding nakaburol Pinaglalamayan ng daluyong Daluyong na siyang papaslang sa impeng dayo Titindig lalaban ang dantaong inaping sambayanan Hanggang hustiya, hanggang katarungan’y manaig Sa lahat na pinaslang ng mga anak ng bayan! 2. Evelyn Bumatay-Castillo, Caregiver Itinaboy ka sa malayong bayan Upang katagpuin ang mailap na kapalarang Hindi dumapo-dapo sa iyong kamay Lingid sa iyong iniwanan, Sa bawat padalang dolyar Kapalit nito’y ang iyong pagkatao Dignidad na inilako sa malayang palengke Ng ekonomistang programang Labor Export Policy Nilagyan ka ng tag ng iyong gobyerno Inihandang paninda sa mga among dayuhan Dakilang caregiver mapagkakatiwalaan Tadtad sa treyning ng TESDA Diplomado at sinanay para sa dayuhang amo Ngunit sadyang madamot ang tadhana Isang araw ng linggo laman ka ng pahayagan Pinaslang bago tangkaing sunugin ang iyong bangkay Kung ano-ano, kung sinu-sino Nagpiyesta sa iyong kwento: Tinatakan ang iyong dignidad Tinawaran ang iyong pagkababae Sadyang walang mabait na kapitalista Ang magsasalba sa iyo Kundi kapwa uring kababaihan Ilantad sa madla ang iyong kaapihan Ang dangal mo’y dangal ng kababaihan Uring pinagsamantalahan Uring tinanggalan ng dangal

Oya Mang-oyan | DALAWANG KWENTO NG PAGPASLANG

Ikaw na Ina din Ikaw ay kapatid din Ikaw na asawa’t katuwang Ikaw na nagluwal sa mga anak Ikaw na laging may puwang Upang magbigay ng yakap Sa mga sugatang puso Ikaw na ngayo’y pinagkaitan Ng hustisya’t katarungan!

TESDA Technical Education and Skills Development Authority, isang ahensiya ng pamahalaan ng Pilipinas sa ilalim ng Department of Labor and Employment na nangangasiwa sa pagbibigay ng mga kursong technical-vocational

Epifanio San Juan Jr.

Balikbayang sinta “Iniwan mo lahat ng iyong minamahal; ito ang palaso na unang Ipinawawalan ng busog ng pagkatapon…” —Dante Alighieri I. Lumipad ka na patungong Roma at London Balisang nakalingon sa ulap at ulan ng naglaboy na panaginip Lubog sa alaala ng kinabukasang unti-unting nalulunod Lumipad ka na patungong Riyadh at Qatar Sa pagkamulat kukurap-kurap sa pagtulog puso’y nagsisikip Binagabag ng sumpang naligaw sa salawahang paglalakbay Lumipad ka patungong Toronto at New York Tinutugis ang biyayang mailap nabulusok sa patibong ng banyaga Sa ulilang pugad anong maamong pag-asa ang nabulabog Lumipad ka na patungong Chicago at San Francisco Kumakaway ka pa tiwalang may katuparang babati ng “Mabuhay” Alinglangang luha’y naglambitin sa bahaghari ng bawat yapos Lumipad ka patungong Hong Kong at Tokyo Di kita malilimot”- pumaimbulog ang tukso ng nabitiwang paalam Nabakling pakpak usok sa bagwis inalagwang talulot ng bituing nasunog Lumipad ka patungong Sydney at Taipei Ay naku, anong panganib ng gayumang sa pangarap nagkupkop Ibon kang nagpumiglas alay mo’y talim ng paglayang nilalangit Lumipad ka, O sintang mahal, ngunit saang kandungan ka lalapag? Bumabalik sa dalampasigang hulog ng iyong hinasang pagtitiis Aking kaluluwang hiniwa’t ikinalat sa bawat sulok ng daigdig

E.San Juan Jr. | Balikbayang Sinta

II. Huli na raw ang lahat. Huli na, umalis na ang tren lulan ang gunita’t pangarap Huli na, lumipas na ang kamusmusan ng balikbayang naglalagalag. Huli na, naiwan na tayo ng eruplanong patungong Tokyo at Los Angeles. Huli na, nakaraan na ang oras ng kagampan at pagsisiyam. Tumulak na, malayo na ang bapor patungong Hong Kong at Singapore. Nagbabakasaling aabot pa ang kable—Sayang, di biro, nakapanghihinayang. Huli ka na sa pangakong pinutakti ng agam-agam at pag-uulik-ulik… Huli na, nahulog na ang araw. Itikom ang labi, itiim ang bagang… Kahuluga’y naanod-lumubog sa dagat ng Sargasso ng pagpapakumbaba’t pagtitiis— Pahabol ay di na magbubuhol—Tapos na ang pagsisisi’t pagpapatawad… Walang taga-ligtas ang lalapag sa tarmak mula sa lobo ng iyong pangarap. Huli na nga, nakaraos na ang kasukdulan, di na maisasauli ang naibigay. Sinong manlalakbay ang magkakaila upang mahuli ang katotohanan? Mailap pa sa mabangis na hayop na nasukol, bumabalandra sa rehas— Mailap pa sa hipong nagpupumiglas—Saan ka nanggaling? Saan pupunta? Paos, hapo, dayukdok, gasgas ang siko’t tuhod, gumagapang mula sa guwang— Maghulihan tayo ng loob, Estranghera, hinihintay ang ligayang walang kahulilip.

Rev. Fr. Greg M. Sevillo, cfcm

Mga Karanasan ng Mandarayuhan 91 Isasalaysay ko mga karanasan na pawang dinanas ng mandarayuhan maraming pagsubok sa dinayong bayan na dapat mabatid ng ating kabayan Pagkat ‘di kilala bansang Pilipinas kaya ang akala utak nati’y butas parang taong bundok kahit tayo’y pantas pagkat ang dinatnan wari’y walang batas ‘Di kinikilala ang pinag-aralan kahit ang propesyon tanging karangalan akala’y mababa ating kaalaman Bagamat may pantas sa mandarayuhan Kaya ang gawain para sa busabos tingin ay alipin at tayo’y may gapos maliit ang sahod sa kita ay kapos kaya kahirapan ‘di matapos-tapos Naghasik ng binhi ang may kamulatan sinikap gisingin ang tulog na bayan umusbong nagbunga bagong kaisipan hanggang sa magwagi sa pakikilaban Ngayon natanggap na ng dinayong bayan mga Pilipinong mulat ang isipan saan man magtungo ay hinahangaan ang ating talino at ang kasipagan

Esel Laxa Panlaqui

Maleta 92

Napagtanto ko na ang takipsilim: Singbigat ng kalooban Kalakaladkad na maletang Laman ay pangamba Pag-aatubiling paulit-ulit Lumulunod sa pakiramdam Habang papunta sa paliparan. Anong buhay ang daratnan Pariwara kaya sa pag-unlad Ang biyayang laan? Ay! bumibiyak sa dibdib Ang puspos sa paghangos Dahil sumasalamin sa kawalan Ng pag-asang di makakamit kailanman Magandang buhay sa lupang tinubuan. Ngunit kakayanin bigat ng maletang Punung-puno din ng pangarap at pag-asa Titipunin hinamig na lakas Aakitin liwanag na kinang ng mga tala Nagbibigay-buhay sa kadilimang tamasa. Ngunit sapilitang paglisan Ay taguyod din ng magandang bukas Pangako iyan walang sukuan. At sa pagitan ng malawak na lawa, Asul na ulap at dagat Mananatili ako sa iyo Hindi kita iiwan Ako’y maletang hila-hila din pabalik Sa bayang sinilangan.

Levy Abad, Jr.

Paglisan Ako ay lilisan patungong ibang bayan Alintana ang bukas na doo’y daratnan Lipos ng pag-asang may hatid na ginhawa Na nawa ay katumbas ng daranasing dusa Ikaw at ako sumugal sa kinabukasan Itinayang lahat sa kamay ng kapalaran Iniwan ang buhay at sagradong ugnayan Inawit ang himig ng malungkot na kasaysayan Sino ang nakatatalos sa pasan nating hirap O sa mga pader ng kulay na dapat akyatin? Sino ang makadarama sa hinihinging pag-aalay Nitong walang katiyakang paglalakbay natin? Kung ang landas ay naiba at ‘di kailangan lumiban Kung ang Inang Bayan hindi sakal ng kahirapan At mga imperyo bumabagsak ng walang laban Maaring tayo’y yakap ng Inang Bayan Madalas tayong nangungulila at hangad ay lumingon Upang yapusin ang bayang sa atin ay nagpayabong Sa katahimikan ng gabi sumasamo ng patawad Habang mga kaluluwa ng ninuno ay tumatawag Sa kislap ng lunsod lingid na lumuluha Sa mga kasamang nag-alay upang tayo’y lumaya Na sa ating karupukan tinalikdang nakikibaka Sa gitna ng dahas ng dilim nang marating ang umaga Ngunit tayo’y nagising sa katotohanan Na tayo’y nakakalat at nagsisikap lumaban Tinitipon ang lakas at nang muli ay sumulong Upang makamit ang layang malaon nang layon Hango sa Tulang “Leaving” na nalathala sa Manitoba History, The Journal of the Manitoba Historical Society, no. 76, Fall 2014, Bayanihan and Belonging: Filipinos in Manitoba by Alison Marshall, p. 17

Ysh Cabaña

Traffic

(for Leticia Sarmiento) 94

Clocking every minute passing, the procession of vehicles on an express weighed in on the trade-offs of the journey. Then I saw how your body collided onto the roadblock ahead of your route. Gone from free to congested. Sensational as it may be read between detours in the reportage, your story conveys that we be more than passive onlookers in the streets or in closed circuit cablevision—satellite-fed. Your circumstance blows resounding the horn to keep moving along the path for doing nothing is crucially an act. But fiercely even without license and its anagram, you stand up lending no voice to complicity, calling for attention to continue desisting from braking while driving down the rally not one more deportation no longer is laissez-faire an option. in a succession of freeze-frames, each vehicle reach a certain preferred speed even to ease the flow takes a toll—metastable. until a whole section has leapt forward to our destination, take the exit from miscarriage of justice. Leticia Sarmiento: Caregiver brought to Vancouver, Canada from Hong Kong by Franco Yiu Kwan Orr in 2008, forced to work every day for long hours for Orr’s family (wife and three children) under humiliating conditions. In 2010, Leticia, also a mother of three, was no longer paid for her work. She called 911, and was brought to a women’s shelter. Orr, who worked at one time as an immigration consultant, was convicted on three counts under the Immigration Act: human trafficking; employing a foreign national illegally and misrepresenting facts to immigration officials. His is the first conviction of human trafficking under the Immigration Act, which penalizes major offenses with life imprisonment. Poem first read in “The Struggle for Human Rights: Campaigns, Movements and Cultural Resistance” at the United Steetworkers Hall during the International Human Rights Day commemoration December 2013.

MaryCarl Guiao

KisamEng Salamin GLASS CEILINGS Someone has written mailable inferior tirelessly servile doormat sexualized slender geisha means AllPinaysAllAsianWomyn on my forehead again. The talaga permanent coordinators at the pretentious institutes for “justice”and people’s interest, like the ones that are not for gender empowerment. A number of profs. Not-chosen blood relatives. So invested in their power. Working to uproot poser-empathetic shallowness, white patriarchal capitalist horrors. The work is always urgently needed but not in a way where we’re suffering from white privilege fatigue syndrome. Not in a way where we’re: Propagating the white gospel, like heteroness for normativity’s sake -all diseases to Our health; Feeding their expectations for us to believe that Our stolen, raped, Our murdered once-vigorously awake and fragrant villages, lands and fams*, Our murdered billions upon billions of beloved plant, animal-including-humyn ancestors -- That they are all: minimizable, forgettable, deniable, erasable, not worth defending and reclaiming. Your highness means it?s a casual goings on to appoint oneself as an ally while living out expertly being an insulting, assaulting facilitator of this despotic, daunting, death culture. While you know we need options; that we’re burnt out by cold imperialistic life, cornered for use in your brutal, disease-ridden slave culture shacks.

MaryCarl Guiao | KISAMENG SALAMIN Glass Ceilings

Your ruling means centuries of Our censorship and exile. Not understanding Our enduring, at every turn, are reminders of our second class skin-status; Not understanding the terrifying realities of so-called freedom in unfriendly settler land; Feeling politically powerless, subjugated to the double standard of white ethics, white sketchiness, white laws. Whiteness loves Our medicines - all artistic, Our cultures, though doesn’t care about: Our origins, Our pains, Our hardest of times; nor about ensuring reparations; nor about undoing border imperialism. The spotlight belongs to you, even if you rip off Our already pained, strained, restrained hearts and traditions. Giddily, recklessly distracting the world from the white-led colonial roots of Our ills. Shaming Our otherized being, Our colours, Our languages, Our wisdoms, Our bodies. Dancing to and taking ownership of Our survival tradisyonal indigenous beats. Treating Our unhealed parts of Ourselves, the traumatic parts of Our stories, like we have a commercial flare to it; like entitling yourself to subhumanzie is something to make a living out of; Slickily packaging Our peoples’ medicines like we are a web of entertainment. We’re always adjusting to the white groove and segregated to the ‘new’ tolerable groove expected to provide endless, earthier inspiration so you can lead world class ensembles in all of Their arrangements, written and unwritten, sung and unsung, spoken and unspoken. Discrimination based on Our Earth tracks Earth origins, where the sun glistens the skin to brown to yellow to dark. Surviving iyong pervasive omnipresent all-reigning lighter-skin favouring, rape-breeding-and-willingly-enabling-to-epidemic-degrees western ways.

Allyship is not showing off how many analytic books you’ve read, how many loaded words you know in English. It’s not about making superficial friendships with as many celebritytype racialized people as possible. Dreaming to be out of this unpaid forever to educate, call out, and call in white-led&instigated injustice. Dreaming to be secure, though Our limbs forever dislocated and scarred as tireless worker. Westerness stealing from Our sweat equity, Our sweat and tears bled, Our CreativeSoul-illuminating fruits that cradle Our shattered silenced fierce parts and entire-ties. STOP STOP STOP: Sacrificing humanity for intellect, For power in its disconnected-from-the-heart metamorphoses; Defining Our bottom line; The word play mind play with white words, just like a good white higher up; Stop white womyn’s tears; Confining us to the propulsive non rhythmic monotonousness of white confidence; Taking but you do not give back to us. Don’t be scared that you are innately deeply Feminine Nor of My aggression. Our tenderness and compassion for you: ineffable. Yet Our security goes into white pockets. Cant escape addicted-to-soul-space-and-time-occupying white royalty. For a normalcy where raping, objectifying, violence against Mother Earth Womyn Girls The Feminine stops. Conspire to Inspire Empathy, uncut. Honouring Our people’s heart pouring energies That conquers over your heart pooring influence; Breaking free from inequities, its symbols, its kisameng salamin glass ceilings.

Kisameng salamin glass ceilings Tradisyunal traditional

Ellen Torres

Antolohiya 98

Minsang nagtrabaho si Allan, Sa pabrikang masukal pa sa kural, Pinamumunuan ng buwayang hitik sa laman sa bulsa At pinatatakbo ng kagaya ni Allan na sang kahig isang tuka Kaya’t pawis ay tumatagaktak kada segundo. Siya ay natuto. Ginawa niyang araw ang gabi para sa minimum wage ng trabaho. Isang araw pag-uwi ni Allan, Nakita niya ang babaeng anak na nasa lapag. Walang malay at walang kasama Duguan at hawak ang sinapupunan Sino nga ba ang tutulong sa tinatawag na puta? At sino ang tutulong sa inuulan ng putang-ina? Minsang pagpasok muli ni Allan, Isang memo ang iniabot ng supervisor niya. Magsasara na ang kumpanya, “Magkaka-backpay ka” Tumulo ang luha sa dalawang humpak na pisngi. “Saan ako pupunta?” Sa isang araw ni Allan, Nag-isip ang pagal na katawan at isip. “Bakit nga ba hindi?” Bakit hindi lisanin ang lupang nagpapahirap? Bakit hindi lisanin ang lahat ng hirap? Isang araw, sa ibang ibayo lumipat ang paa ni Allan Lugar na iniisip na lupang magsasalba sa hirap Lugar na mistulang langit sa sumasamba sa pera. Lugar na inakalang may hustisya. Pero hindi. Walang pinagkaiba ang hirap. Walang pinagkaiba ang sakit, Sa utak, Sa puso, Sa kaluluwa. Kaya si Allan, Kinalas ang tanikala na bumibihag sa kathang isip na pantay ang lahat. Natuto siyang tumayo. Natuto siyang lumaban. Para sa karapatan. Para sa sambayanan. Kahit siya’y nasa ibang bayan.

Imelda Ortega Suzara

BUGTONG NG DAYONG DANAS 1. PAG-ASA Kayamanan at kapayapaan sa ibang bansa, Kalayaan sa kahirapan ng pulitikang malansa 2. TAGUMPAY Sikap sa trabaho, tagumpay at kayamanan, Pag-aaral ng ugali, katayuan ng mamamayan. 3. DEPORTASYON Ikalawang bahay sa kumaliwa, kulungan o ipakawala Sa lupang sinilangan, o ituwid bilang katiwala? 4. PAGKABILANGGO Kabuhayan ng krimen, sa bilanggo pinabayaan, Tumuwid ang katwiran, pinatawad at nagbalikbayan.

francesca esguerra | Magsasaka

Ben S. Corpuz

Panambitan sa malayong dalampasigan 101 Mula sa baryo, kanayunan at kalunsuran Sanlibong anak ng naghihikahos nating bayan Naglalayag sa pagtakas sa tiranya’t kahibangan Sa bayang puno ng mga panginoong Nasa kontrol ng mga dayuhan Nagmamay-ari na rin ng kinalbong kabundukan at maraming sakahan. Walang sapat na industriya ang sariling bansa Manggagawa ay alipin ng mga kapitalista, Magsasaka’y hindi nag-aari ng lupa. Kaya’t sigaw ay pagbabago! Sahod itaas! Presyo ibaba! Ipatupad tunay na reporma sa lupa! Walang epekto sa gobyernong luklok na bulag at sarado ang taynga Hibang sa Pork Barrel natatanging programa. Mamamayan naghihirap lalong nasadlak Daang matuwid ni hindi maaninag Mayayaman lalong umuunlad Pandarambong sa bigas ng bayan, Lalong pinatupad ng panginoong maylupang Matalas ang dila pero marahas ang palad. Nangutang at ari-arian kanilang binenta Mga masisibol na anak ng bayan nagsilisan na sila, Patungong dakong Asya, Europa, Saudi Arabia, Africa at Hilagang Amerika

Ben S. Corpuz | Panambitan sa malayong dalampasigan Masakit man mawalay sa pamilyaPagtitiis at kirot sa dibdib hindi alintana Nagsasakripisyo para kumita alang-alang sa pamilya. 102

Sila ang maraming nagkalat Sa malayong dalampasigan Nasa mga bahay ng amo, gusali, Opisina, ospital, konstruksiyon, Restawran, tindahan, taniman at iba pa Kumakayod - isa, dalawa, tatlo ang mga trabaho Para may padalang Balikbayan box at remitanses sa bangko Mabayaran ang pagkakautang, matupad ang mga pangako. Panambitan ko sa ating mga migrante Pag-aralan ang katotohanan at tanungin ang sarili Ano ang nagtulak sa ating mangibang-bayan? Personal ba, guhit ng tadhana, at sariling kapalaran O yaong kundisyon ng nilisan na lipunan? Dito sa malayong dalampasigan, dinggin yaong panambitan Magsuri, magkaisa at mangalap ng sanlaksang lakas Palayain ang isip at alisin ang rehas Mag-organisa, magmobilisa tayo at makibaka Sindihan ang mitsa ng ating pagkakaisa!

Sanaysay Essay

francesca esguerra | Striker on a Jeepney

Rhea Gamana

Separation, Migration and Resistance

ometime ago, I used to say that all activists were just noisy complainers, paralyzing the traffic with their rallies just for the questionable pleasure of yelling out on the streets. Way back then, I did not understand at all why they couldn’t ’t just do something productive and use their time more wisely. I thought that they could easily accomplish these positive things by going abroad and earning a living. That way, they would get a better life, and provide for their families. It would only be much later, when I reunited with my mother, and had hopes of being productive, earning a living abroad, getting that better life I thought of. that things changed. I had to change. Now I understand why activists do what they do. I have become one of them. First, let me tell you about my mother, and how, in order to provide for us, she had to make great changes in her life. She was a government employee in the Philippines, and because her salary wasn’t sufficient for the needs of her family, she decided to migrate to Canada as a live-in caregiver. She left her two children behind - my brother and myself. It is a common enough story among Filipinos these days. Since the early 1970s, children have been left behind by their mothers, and perhaps by fathers as well, because of a severe lack of decent jobs and decent wages in the Philippines. Most mothers who have gone abroad have for decades chosen Canada because of the demand in Canada for domestic workers, and most of all, because of the government’s promise to give Permanent Residence status to those who met the specified requirements for this status. In the early 70s, the women came into Canada under the Foreign Domestic Program, which was later transformed into the Livein Caregiver Program. This year, changes were again announced by the Minister of Immigration, and the program will probably need a new name. I suppose it could be said that my mother saw at close hand how overseas work was actively promoted the Philippine government as the main solution to economic problems of the majority of Filipinos, and early enough saw how many families began to depend on the domestic work overseas of wives, mothers or daughters. For four decades now, this policy has been entrenched as the Labour Export Policy (LEP), initiated by then President Ferdinand Marcos in 1972. The many women who migrated to other countries like the men, had not even travelled in their

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own country. They began to go to foreign countries by themselves, as daring as the men to “bite the bullet”, so to speak. The late president had said it was a temporary measure to address the economic crisis in the country, but “temporary”in any case always meant, to these women, the sacrifice of leaving their homes and loved ones. As for the children, sacrifice was also undeniable. I can say with great pride that I tried so hard to be a good daughter despite my mother’s absence, yet I must honestly say that the drawbacks of not having my mother present saddened me. The great comfort of my contributions to the family being recognized by a mother who actually saw how I took great efforts to be a good student, or the constant assurance of her guiding words - these were denied me. I also took care of my family in any way I could – doing household chores and helping my younger brother with his studies. I had to keep my sadness to myself, for I had no one to console me. I could not tell anyone about my feelings. How could I , knowing my mother’s sacrifice, say that I was so sad, unable to speak with her faceto-face when I needed advice, or at least hear some kind word? My own troubles would be so petty in comparison. . It might have helped if I knew then that there were many like me. I know now that the long period of implementation of the LEP created many family situations like mine. Perhaps, understanding that there were ways of bridging our separated worlds, I could have learned to be more communicative with my mother; we would have appreciated each other more, and we would have somehow found a way to grow closer to each other despite the distance ! I know now that the Philippine government also profited from my mother’s sacrifice, though it was just one of the billions it received from migrant workers from all over the world. The remittances that women like my mother sent were supposed to help the government put the economy back on track. The taxes they paid as well should have shown positive changes. There should have been more economic gains – such as improvements in the state of the economy, social services for the majority, more affordable schools – but disappointingly, the evidence shows that the LEP is no solution to economic problems, neither as a temporary or long-term policy. Least of all is it a “people-friendly’ solution to poverty, since families pay the enormous costs: separation; the linked psychological problems, and the diminishing of parental guidance. Here in Canada, together with youth in our organization Anakbayan-Toronto (Children of the People – Toronto) , I searched for answers regarding the separation issues that our family had to experience. In our studies and discussions, I learned so much about the realities of life in the Philippines. I can see now why there is so much poverty in our country,

despite the fact that our land is so rich in natural resources. I realize that this very wealth of our land has attracted the numerous foreign companies who come to dig our gold, copper and nickel and take advantage of our fertile lands. They also come to employ our talented people as well as the skilled and hard-working men and women, for the factories, mines and agricultural businesses they set up in our land. Meanwhile, the Philippine economy does not have a national industrialization plan to end underdevelopment. Instead it depends on remittances from overseas Filipino workers. The numbers of our migrant workers continue to rise under the administration of current President Benigno Aquino III. This policy of labour export which divides families. There are now 5000 leaving every day to work in different countries. The Philippines is the number one source country of migrants to Canada. This important perspective I did not know before, so when the time came for my brother and me to reunite with our mother here in Canada, I was nervous but also happily expectant. Prior to our departure, in the few orientation sessions we attended, government officials told us that Canada was a better place to attain the future that I wanted. I was relieved then that the sacrifice my mother made, and the pains of separation that we felt were all finally bearing sweet fruit, and we were all being given this reward of a new and better life. We were in no way prepared for a Canada where we had to face more obstacles. The matter of my education now classified as “foreign”loomed as my primary problem. I had graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in English in the Philippines. I had wanted to become a lawyer or a teacher, and had thought I could continue my education in either field. It unnerved me to find out that the educational attainment which I worked so hard for, paying my tuition with money my mother also worked hard for, was ultimately considered of no value here in Canada. So it was that a week after our arrival here in Canada almost seven years ago, I applied for a cashier’s job at a fast food chain. According to a study titled “Filipinos in Canada: Economic Dimensions of Immigration and Settlement”by Dr. Philip Kelly of York University, Filipino immigrants have the highest educational attainment of all migrant groups yet still tend to be deskilled. When a migrant or immigrant cannot apply her/his training or education to a work setting for a long time, she/he easily loses the skills. Technically, as well, employers consider those skills lost. For example, if I were a nurse in the Philippines, I could only work here as a nanny or personal support worker. Unless I find a way to take courses to “upgrade”my education and skills to the accepted Canadian levels, I cannot find employment as a nurse, and therefore cannot put my nursing skills to use. In the majority of cases, the lack of time or money to “upgrade”puts the migrant or immigrant in the locked position of

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income-generation at a lower level than her education/skills level, and the resultant part of that is the loss or the dormancy of learned skills. In my case, I haven’t yet been able to use my education here in Canada in my search of employment or, least of all, to start a career. So it was that I resigned myself to working as a part-time cashier , and I told myself it was the best thing to do while waiting for the right time to get back to academic studies. Unfortunately, I had barely completed a year at my job when , I was attacked by robbers at my workplace. I thought I would die that day. The robber pointed the gun towards my stomach, and grabbed my head and hit it hard on the cash register. That day nearly ruined me. I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I remained in that condition for three years. This was certainly not what I expected from a country like Canada. Nothing of the kind was described to us to be at all possible in the pre-departure orientation sessions we received in the Philippines. However, the discussions we would have at Anakbayan-Toronto helped me regain my balance and set my focus on understanding the situation of migrant workers and immigrants in Canada. Firstly, it helped me situate the experiences of my mother and our experiences as children readjusting to a life with her in Canada. I learned to understand what the Live-in Caregiver Program (LCP) is. The Live-in Caregiver Program (LCP), a program of the federal government, allows Canadians to import live-in caregivers, who are introduced into Canadian society as temporary migrant workers, but are otherwise known in other countries as domestic workers. The odd thing about the LCP workers is that they actually should be introduced in the permanent resident category, because they are assured by the program that they will later be eligible for permanent residence and, eventually, citizenship in Canada. Under the LCP, the workers had the promise of government that, if they complete the program they can become permanent residents and sponsor their family through the reunification program. The transition process from LCP work to permanent residency, from a recent research jointly led by GABRIELA Ontario, Ryerson University and York University, has taken an average of 19 months. If we make an estimate of the total waiting time from LCP work to the actual arrival of the worker’s family in Canada, we could put it on an average of seven years, sometimes more. It has certainly taken longer than seven years for families with more children to reunite. That’s a long time to be separated from your family. A long time spent taking care of the children of others, while your own need you at home. This aspect of the program causes

damage to family relationships, one that affects the children deeply—as my personal experience would tell you. At Anakbayan-Toronto, we also talked about the other aspects of the lives of Filipino youth in Canada. A nationwide research with Filipino youth participants also shows that children of Filipino migrants make less money than their parents and have a lower educational attainment. Statistics Canada would confirm the second point with the following data: 32% of first generation Filipinos have a bachelor’s degree, while there is only 28% the second generation who also have this. wWhy are Filipinos going out of the country, although they have good educational levels or have good work experiences in their chosen field? Why do they risk everything as they undergo changes in life conditions, especially family conditions, in other countries? At our sessions, these are usual questions, and our studies bring us to certain points about the conditions in our country of origin. The Philippines is a semi-colonial country, which means that the country is not independent and remains under the control of Western imperialism, with a local government that follows the dictates of international financial institutions, large multinational companies, and above all, the political dictates of the American government . The Philippines is also a semi-feudal nation. Big business bosses, landlords and the elite exploit the natural resources and the cheap serf-like labour of the country. This results in the displacement of families from their lands and sources of livelihood, and their forced internal migration to urban areas or their migration, also forced, to other countries to find a better living. Canadians need to be aware that we are all part of this system. Not only here in Canada through our immigration policies, but also in the Philippines where Canadian imperialism contributes to forced migration. Part of our taxes goes to fund Canadian companies in the Philippines (especially in the mining sector), and Canadian military training of the Philippine armed forces to help protect those companies and forcefully displace Filipinos from the countryside through militarization. The intensification of displacement of Filipinos yield more and more numbers of unemployed or underemployed workers, and creates a huge surge of available workers for temporary work in foreign lands. This vast resource of workers is ultimately the forseeable target of changes in Canadian immigration policies. The announced policy of four years of temporary work in Canada followed by four years in the worker’s country of origin before being considered eligible for another four years work can only traced to an awareness of the reality of excess labour supply in the Third World. The recently announced changes in the LCP is also traceable to this reality. Although the demand for

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domestic workers and caregivers in Canada will doubtlessly continue to be high, the still-undefined restrictions to eligibility for permanent residency is discouraging to Filipino women, and the splitting of the path to permanent residency into two also vaguely defined paths, are both evidences that government officials know there is an almost bottomless well of temporary workers from the Philippines who will be willing to once again risk “biting the bullet”. This is not a just way to treat workers from other countries, particularly if that country is also a source of raw materials which are extracted by foreign companies at low cost, but at the great expense of the inhabitants’ security and livelihood. I will continue to work for a Philippines that is truly democratic and truly independent. I will continue to work so that justice comes to the marginalized and the underrepresented. As Chairperson of AnakbayanToronto, I will serve Filipinos in Toronto, as well as Filipinos in our motherland, together with other youth who believe that together, we can all make changes for the better for all Filipinos. As we advocate for: human rights and migrant workers’ rights in Toronto, we will also call for human rights , national industrialization and genuine land reform in the Philippines. We look towards the future, and advocate for these because we know these changes will ensure that Filipino families remain intact, and ensure that no one will have to leave the country, risking all that they have, the smallest property, their health, their family, their very lives, for the slightest chance of finding a better life. I am committed, as are other youth in Anakbayan, to preventing the continuation of conditions that cause this forced migration where the vulnerable are made more helpless – both the worker and the children they leave. Above all, the youth of Anakbayan-Toronto will not stop calling for national industrialization and genuine land reform, which will pave the way to decent jobs in our own country. We want these important changes to happen so that we could prevent the suffering of any child who is left by mothers and fathers to work abroad. When we ensure the well-being of children, surely they can then in turn ensure our nation’s bright future.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The 2013 version of this essay was first published as “Testimonio: My Story of Family Separation, Migration and Resistance” in BASICS Community News Service

Alex Felipe

“HOW DO I GET TO WORK THERE, TOO?”

he controversy around the temporary foreign worker program (TFWP) hit in late spring while I was doing fieldwork for research on Canadian mining in West Mindanao, Philippines. My mind quickly became entangled in the systemic knots that lock together seemingly disparate issues. At what locals call Ground Zero in Zamboanga City – where urban warfare between Muslim separatists and the army one year ago claimed lives, destroyed a neighbourhood, and has left tens of thousands homeless – there hung fresh ads in the streets about finding work abroad. In an area known for its kidnap gangs, I saw another work abroad ad hanging under a Guns for Peace notice calling on “insurgents”to trade in their arms (for up to $5,000). When I attended a community consultation with people who claimed to have suffered harassment, torture, and/or the extrajudicial killing of family and friends by the security forces protecting mining interests, I saw another ad about working abroad. And upon learning that I am a Filipino-Canadian, people would continually ask, How do I get to work there, too? Many Canadians aren’t shy about expressing their opinions about migrants and the TFWP, with the most vocal group taking the xenophobic line that “immigrants are taking our jobs.”Activists have tended to respond to this with “No, they’re not!”or “We have a moral obligation to help these poor oppressed souls!” Half a world away in the Philippines, the debate seemed a bit strange or, well, foreign to me. Many of us seem to have moved our analysis toward ethics and away from seeing capitalism as a system, one whose internal contradictions drive many of the choices we all make. After the Canadian government announced changes to the TFWP in June, migrant rights activists rightly pointed out that temporary workers remain virtual indentured servants who are poorly protected by labour laws and whose voices are silenced. Nevertheless, Filipinos still willingly gamble on taking their labour power abroad to save themselves and their families from the realities of life in the Philippines: worsening poverty, a dearth of meaningful employment, and the shadow of imperialism that blankets the islands in political (and economic) violence.

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This story of hardship is usually put in the service of a morality-based argument that calls for us to empathize with the desperate and exploited. But if we are honest, a serious (if cold) rejoinder follows: We have our own problems in Canada, including growing under-employment and serious cuts to our standard of living, so shouldn’t we take care of our own citizens first? The missing piece The Philippines is a country that daily ships out almost 5,000 items of “stock”(the official government term for human beings) to both prop up the economy (with over 10 per cent of the GDP coming from remittances) and to relieve social pressures resulting from an unindustrialized, semi-feudal, and neocolonial economy. Migrante International, the world’s largest organization of Filipino migrant workers, notes that “the number of overseas Filipino workers (OFWs) has increased significantly since [Philippine president] B.S. Aquino took office [in 2010]. By 2012, at least one-fourth of the country’s labor force had gone abroad to find work. According to the Labor Department, there are now 12 million OFWs abroad.”Organizers with Migrante International view this phenomenon as just one part of an exploitative economic system. “Generally, migrant activists in Canada have their heart in the right place,”says Marco Luciano of Migrante Canada’s Alberta chapter. “The missing piece in the discussion is linking these guest worker program issues to the issue of neoliberal globalization. Imperialist countries like Canada survive from the cheapest labour they can get their hands on. And migrant labour is the cheapest there is. Now is the time we must start talking about this issue. This is what Migrante is doing, linking the TFWP to the global picture.” And the global picture is a dire one. The so-called Great Recession that began in 2008 has swept the global economy into crisis and instability. As seen in even some European countries, there is a frenzy to find ways to stabilize economies, with some teetering on the edge of collapse. All the while, many people wax nostalgic about the golden era after the Second World War when good jobs were relatively easy to come by. It was in the downturn that began in the mid-’70s that the modern era of migration began. Today, when activists react to defend the honour of migrants against rightwing populists who want migrants out, they forget that it’s the right wing in power that wants migrants in. They forget that there is a kernel of truth, albeit dangerous in its incompleteness, in the often racist claim that Canadian jobs are being “taken.”Marxist thinkers such as David Harvey note that migration has been used as a neoliberal tool to weaken workers’ movements by pitting dominant workers against racialized newcomers. The flip side to this is that migrant workers have played a leading role in galvanizing and reigniting the labour movement, as seen with Latino workers in the U.S. in recent years.

During my fieldwork in the Philippines, I lived and worked in communities of idyllic rice fields and simple thatched-roof homes. We cooked very basic meals over wood-burning hearths in cast iron pots. The bathroom was often a shed shared by livestock, the toilet a hole in the floor that led to a canal outdoors, and the shower sometimes just a shallow well outdoors. Scratch the surface, and such rural scenery reveals a grim socio-economic picture. The vast majority of the subjects of my research (including Indigenous people) are irregular agricultural labourers who earn approximately $3 a day – on those rare days they are able to find work. Those very few who have savings and education see little opportunity for themselves or their children, and migration seems like an escape to something better. The Philippines has had an unofficial labour export policy since the dictator Ferdinand Marcos first pursued the export of workers as a way to temporarily alleviate the economic downturn in the ’70s. The way migration has grown since that period has coincided with the succeeding economic crises of the ’80s, ’90s, and 2000s. In 1975 there were 36,000 workers deployed abroad, while by 2012 there were more than 12 million. And where once families could migrate together and the pathway to citizenship was open and relatively easy, today the norm is for desperate individuals to head out while leaving spouses and children behind. In the case of Canada’s TFWP, the path to citizenship and family reunification is closed in most of the streams accessible to Filipinos, with the exception of caregivers. Divorced from morality A summer with the rural poor in the Philippines made me realize that we need to do more than champion the rights of migrant workers. The way the global economy is organized in itself is the problem. The economist Andrew Kliman has done extensive quantitative research showing that a falling overall rate of profit (following decades of postwar growth) led to the crisis of the mid-’70s, while Harvey has written extensively about how this downturn was addressed by means of the “spatio-temporal fixes”associated with neoliberal restructuring, including offshoring, financialization, consumer debt, and state policy that inflated unsustainable real estate and asset-price bubbles. This broader reality was difficult to wrestle with as I spoke with peasant farmers. Many leftists accept that people in the Global South are being pushed to migrate. But doesn’t this logic work both ways? Are not corporations subject to market forces that drive them outward in search of cheap labour and better market share? Leftists often focus on corporate greed and the handful raking in record profits. But if we want to make sense of the way the global economy works, we need to look past greed to the structural dynamics of capitalism. It’s easy to be outraged by corporate immorality; it’s harder to accept that without neoliberal

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restructuring the crises of the ’70s would have resulted in a downturn akin to the Great Depression. We must think about the TFWP in terms of capitalism as a worldwide system that is driven by an internal logic divorced from morality. It’s not just greedy people doing greedy things; it’s people, capitalists and the poor alike, doing what they need to do to survive on the system’s terms. Since capitalism is an inherently stratified system, this of course means that what a peasant farmer and a multinational CEO each must do to maintain their places is vastly unequal and unfair. For the corporation, success means seeking out cheaper labour markets. For the poor, it means seeking out relatively better opportunities. And all the while, the contradictions in the system move it from boom to bust and to economic crises that can only be offset at ever greater costs. And so it was while studying the after-effects of a Canadian mining company’s entry into a Filipino community and reading about the after-effects of migrant Filipinos’ entry to Canada that the interconnections echoed in my brain. It seemed clear that neither issue could be addressed independently of the other except as tactics within a larger strategy that addresses the geographic trajectories of both labour and capital. “The role of the [Filipino] migrant activist is to educate the Canadian… [about] the reasons why there are hundreds of thousands of migrants,”says Garry Martinez, chairperson for Migrante International. “[Canadians should] realize we are both victims and exploited by the capitalist system.” Our fates are intertwined: the peasant farmer, the Filipino living and working in Canada, and the Canadian worker. Our individual issues and grievances are symptoms of a larger problem. As Migrante International has said, now is the time, the time for a solidarity that goes beyond pity and empty moralism, a solidarity that forges class consciousness within a new internationalism that is rooted on the ground but able to see the bigger picture.

editor’s note: Felipe’s essay was published in Briarpatch Magazine’s November/December 2014 issue

Christopher C. Sorio

Detention and torture by the Marcos military Memories of Martial Law in the Philippines

am presently working as a part time community worker assisting newcomers and live-in caregivers. I formerly worked as a full-time colour management team leader for a packaging company in Toronto. I was a first year high school student when Martial Law (ML) was proclaimed. Few weeks before the proclamation I was part of school integration group that visited farmers in Batangas. We were able to talk to peasants and activists about the issues of their respective sectors. Two weeks later ML was proclaimed. I vividly remember that morning - we woke up with no TV shows, no radio shows and no newspapers. Rumors spread that ML had been proclaimed. In the afternoon, we saw and heard President Ferdinand Marcos on our television sets, announcing his proclamation of Martial Law. Curfew had been imposed and people were being arrested. For several days and weeks, cartoons were the only fare on television, and in between them was Malacanang Press Secretary Francisco Tatad, who read the presidential proclamation and decrees related to ML. Marcos was running the country by decrees and presidential proclamation. The letters ABC in the alphabet got a new meaning: Aguinaldo, Bonifacio at Crame (military camps). I was a campus journalist and student leader during the martial law years. In the university belt area I joined the boycott movement and eventually became a member of League of Filipino Students. I still remember the violent dispersal we encountered near Sta. Cruz church in 1976 or 1977. I was recruited to the LFS when I actively joined the Alyansa ng mga Magaaral Laban sa Pagtaas ng Tuition fee. We protested the tuition fee hike, militarization of campuses, the ban on campus papers and members of the student council. Since I was working forthe campus ministry in the university, I helped arrange a dialogue between the student leaders and the bishops, in order for the bishops to understand the reason for the boycott movement. This was the time that I met my partner and wife.She, too, was a student leader. The boycott movement won the students the right to have a campus paper. Eventually, I was asked to be part of the Editorial Board. We had

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to submit articles to the Adviser and the Dean of Student Affairs had to approve them for publication. So we had to find creative ways to bring our message across to the campus community. I was arrested twice. The first was inside the university and I was only questioned when an element of the university security force searched my bag and found a leaflet on the boycott movement and the tuition fee hike. A possession of leaflets like those I had could land you in jail. I was detained, questioned and released but was blacklisted from enrolling in the next term. I had to bring my mother to the university and sign a waiver that I would not become an activist. My next arrest was in April, 1982. I was arrested in La Loma, Quezon City by the elements of 5th MIG -Intelligence Service of the Armed Forces of the Philippines. For almost two years I was detained in Camp Bago Bantay on EDSA. Under “Operation Masagana”, a number of individuals who were suspected to be part of the underground movement were arrested in a series of raids all throughout April, 1982. My arresting unit raided the house I was staying in. I was able to break through the encirclement. I was able to run and take my first-born son and his baby sitter to my mother’s house. When I went back home to take more belongings, plainclothesmen had completely surrounded the house. I locked myself inside the house and after a few hours, they came and broke through the door. I was hiding in the bedroom on the second level of the house. I opened the door and introduced myself. They took me down and I saw many men with M16 rifles searching every part of the house. They said they were searching for thewhere AK47s I had hidden. I told them I knew nothing about that. They took me back up in the bedroom where a person whom they called captain was sitting at the center. He shouted “Hubad, Putang ina ka lilibing ka naming buhay”(‘Undress, you SOB, we will bury you alive!’). I stood in front of this person and answered questions. Then he told me to dress up. They blind folded me and took me in a vehicle. I was able to loosen my blindfold and that gave me a chance to see the feet, shoes of people who questioned me. With the recollection of the voices of these people and their feet, later on I was able to put faces to them. When my blindfold was removed, I was told I was in a safehouse. I was asked to write on a piece of paper my name, rank in the underground movement and the organizational structure of my unit. As I was writing, armed men would come in and out of the room I was staying, there I saw other people, one of them was my friend. I told them she was not involved and knew nothing about underground movement. Every time I was interrogated I would tell them she was innocent. A few days later she disappeared. When I had my first visitor, word was whispered to me that she was released but

they could confirm from her whether she was raped. On my first night of captivity I was offered “pinakbet”for dinner and beer. As I was eating, the interrogation started. Whenever I could not answer the question or refused to answer the question, they would slap me. I was told to sleep on top of the conference table and was told to be ready for a very hectic day ahead. When I woke up, I was questioned again and beaten up. I was asked if I was an officer in the underground movement. The government had put a prize on people who were arrested so if you were only a member, the prize was pitifully small. That was why they forced you to admit that you are an officer. Afterwards, I was brought to an interrogation room. As I was moved to other parts of the camp, my blindfold was put on again. In the interrogation room, I was shown pictures and told to identify people that they pointed out. Then a big-built person they called the “Berdugo”, came out with a field radio. With radio cable wires, he approached me and gave me jolt on the elbow. The questioning stopped, and they told me to take off all my clothes. The yellow striped jockey brief I was wearing was also taken. I was tied up to a chair. They wrapped the cable wire to my genitals and slowly the Berdugo turned the crank of the field radio. As he cranked it, electricity shocked my body. I screamed on and off as the crank kept turning. They started pouring water over my body. “Tama na po!”I kept on shouting. The electric shocks got more intense. I screamed. They stopped and one guy picked up my brief and stuffed it into my mouth. I was prepared to die. They stopped and took out my brief and asked where the other underground houses were. They wanted to know names and things that couldbe found. This time there were 20 armed men who just came from a raiding operation and did not find anybody there. They shouted: “speak up or we will kill you now!”The torture continued until I could no longer breathe. I was hoping I would collapse and die, but they stopped and continued questioning me as they threatened me with further fortune. After two weeks, I was allowed to have a visitor. After all, it was my birthday. A few days later the writ of habeas corpus was filed with the Supreme Court and we were presented to the court. For several years even after my release from prison I would be attending the court trial. I was charged with rebellion with four other detainees. Our group was known as the Bago Bantay Five. In prison for almost two years, I took care of pigs and chickens. We also set up a greeting cards production team. Whatever income we generated was used as our money, which we sent to our loved ones. I spent a lot of time taking care of the kitchen and marketing. We were able to negotiate that we cook our meals and plan our own menu.

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Somewhere in the midst of all this, I was introduced to Zen Buddhism. We meditated. We also played pelota. The International Red Cross team called our prison a “four-star”prison compared to Bicutan. They asked us: if prison conditions were this comfortable, why would we want to complain? We said that we were doing was definitely not merely complaining; what we were doing was because we wanted our freedom back. After my release in prison, I worked with the Task Force Detainees of the Philippines through their Research and Documentation desk. Together with other released detainees, we formed SELDA, an association of exdetainees. When Marcos was deposed, I joined the class action suit seeking compensation as victims of Martial Law. On January 2011, it was announced that we would be compensated $1,000 US each. The money appears to be so meager, given the amount that we sought. But one thing was clear: the compensation proved that there were violations of human rights during the presidency of Marcos. The compensation recognized that we were victims of the martial law regime. After contacting the lawyer I was finally able to receive the cheque in May 2011.

Editor’s note: Martial Law was imposed by then President Ferdinand Marcos on Sept. 21, 1972. This article is one of a number of first-hand accounts of the unparalleled repression that lasted up to the EDSA uprising on Feb. 26, 1986.

Catherine Hernandez

Bastions for the brown

remember as a young child watching a National Geographic special on the superhuman abilities of Aboriginals in the construction of what is now the New York City skyline. Like most stories told through the white lens, the documentary focused on the mystique of the Aboriginal people being their secret to braving such high heights while laying down the foundation of the world’s most recognizable sky scrapers. Now as an adult, as someone who aims to be progressive each and every single day, I look back and realize these people who constructed the skyline were not armed with some magical braid of sweetgrass in their pockets and the blessings of their ancestors to make buildings for white people on the land where those ancestors were butchered in the first place. They just needed to make money. This is a typical re-framing I do on the daily for both myself and the people around me about my own Filipino community. I wrote once in my play I Cannot Lie to the Stars that Made Me, “My people know hard work/ And no, I don’t mean we are hard workers./ For hunger and desperation keep any hands from being idle./ As in, we know hard work because we have to work hard.” This brings me to the idea of resiliency and how this very powerful word can actually be the death of us. Resiliency is, like pacifism, like stereotyping, like exotification, a cog in the machine of whiteness. It is an insidious bi-product of surviving colonization. It is the romanticizing of people of colour’s survival in the face of adversity in order for us to continue churning out the privilege for the few and being congratulated for it. It is the most sinister biscuit at the end of a game of fetch between master and dog. Only there is no true reprieve. And this so called resiliency manifests physically and chemically into our bodies over time as symptoms such as mental illness and chronic pain. It is with this in mind that I present the following tools for spiritual and emotional survival. You may be a caregiver under the LCP who is buried in paperwork while trying to sponsor your family. You may be a sex worker who is being slut-shamed while fighting for your absolute right to make cash. You may be a migrant worker who is physically spent down to your last calorie working dangerous jobs and sending remittance home. I found it very interesting that western military experts, when building fortifications, understood that the use of “bastions”was imperative for the

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First Bastion: Unapologetic Self Care A dear friend of mine, Imani, gave me the most perfect phrase: “Zero things accomplished, zero fucks given.”While this may seem to some like a careless attitude toward life, the truth is, our constant need to be dutiful is in fact caused by our internalized whiteness. Keep going. Keep working. Don’t stop now. Finish all tasks until our master tells us we are done. Once you realize the disproportionate ratio of work shared between the privileged few and unprivileged many, you will see that you have absolute right to stop when you need to rest. As a single mama, caregiver and artist, I know that with my many hustles this is a challenge, trying to see when I actually have the right to stop, and actually having the time to do so. That said, I now know the value of stopping what I am doing and doing NOTHING. I set the timer. It may just be an hour. But I will not clean a single thing. I will not give advice. I will not care for a single soul except for my own. In fall 2012, I headed Operation Lifeboat, which raised awareness and funds for the Un-Natural disasters in the Philippines. I immersed myself in a lifeboat filled with filthy water for 24 hours, had over 45 artists worldwide perform, and over 1100 people watch me live online. I thought there was no time to stop. Following the event, the momentum of my activism nearly drove me into my own grave. I realized I was suffering from fatigue, drowning between writing scripts, changing diapers, attending grass roots and theatre events. I couldn’t complete sentences. I resented my daughter. My already crooked spine was throbbing in pain. Between then and now I have done the following without apology: I have cut down the amount of events I attend. I enjoy spending long amounts of time in silence and stillness. I have learned to express clearly and completely to lovers and friends the kind of relationship I want from them and my expectations of mutual care. I have never been more grounded. My biggest realization was that this did not dilute my activism. It strengthened it because self care is a radical act in a world that seeks to shut my body down.

Second Bastion: Call Your People As mentioned before, congratulating each other on our resilience is part of our internalized whiteness. It’s a pat on the head for treading water. Right now, when a fellow person of colour is sharing with me details of their life’s difficulties, I fight the urge to congratulate them but rather offer support. Do they need someone to listen? Do they need advice? A home cooked meal? Space away from the friendship? For me, I actually have a small network of people who I turn to with the clear understanding that: a) They have absolute right to tell me their limitations with offering care b) There is no judgement as to why you need care c) The care is mutual. Calling on your people is a powerful tool because it is mutually beneficial, it does not need rely on capitalist structure (except for the money needed to pay for food or activities amongst friends for example) and it recalls the ways in which our ancestors supported each other. Third Bastion: Speak Loud Enough that You Can Hear Yourself During a very traumatic process of coming out as a queer, my therapist told me that “You tell people how to treat you.”As a brown woman, I know I have to do this on the daily. With every word, every step I take in this lifetime, I am undoing the damage done by hundreds of years of victimization of our women around the world. I tell people, through my actions, that I am a wolf, that I am not to be fucked with, that I am powerful and unstoppable. I tell people, through my actions, that I am a lioness, that my generosity cannot be mistaken for weakness and my vulnerability cannot be mistaken for naivety. The first way I do this is by speaking loud enough so that I can hear myself; loud enough to shatter the geisha stereotype and let the shards lay at the feet of all who pass me. Here are some phrases I have to say clearly and firmly on the regular: “Actually, you owe me money for five days care for your child. Not four. I will need payment immediately.”“I will not be able to attend to that task until next week.”“I do not feel comfortable with you touching me in that way. You need to stop.” I understand this requires some amount of privilege to be able to speak this way to those around you and I understand that many of you who may be reading this may not afford this privilege. If this is the case for you, experiment with simple succinct sentences that are delivered firmly. The earlier in the building of the foundation of this relationship -- be it

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Fourth Bastion: Breathe

emember when I mentioned self care is a radical act in a world that seeks to shut your body down? Then imagine that breath is the sign you’re holding up while marching in protest. It means you, your brown body, your brown kids, your brown parents back home, are alive, despite the forced diaspora, despite the disasters, despite everything. The next time you finish a Skype call with your children abroad, the next time you struggle to pay your rent, the next time you miss a funeral of a loved one, try this breathing pattern. This one, which in Kundalini yoga is known as Nerves of Steel, helped me after surviving severe trauma. Breathe in through your nose until you feel your lungs cannot hold anymore air. Top that amount by taking small sips of air through the nose. Hold until you cannot hold it any longer. Breathe out through the nose slowly until you feel your lungs are empty. Visualize the ache of pain, anxiety or trauma being the final bits of peanut butter inside of a jar and the breath in scraping away at those bits, the breath out being the spatula whisking the residue aside and away from your body. Work from 11 mins to start. In solidarity.

Daryl David

UN APERçU GLOBAL (A Global Overview)

n the past year I have been living abroad in the beautiful city of Paris during which I have found a new perspective on life. I have a renewed awareness of living in a global village. Upon meeting new people, I am asked many questions and my favorite is “Where/What region are you from?”I chuckle at answering this question, especially when I am at restaurants in the south of France. I appear to be a foreigner with my pretty good but non-native French accent. I also speak English really well, yet I use my French bank card to pay. My answer highlights the global nature of my upbringing. After all, my albeit lengthy response is that I was born in the Philippines, migrated to Canada, became a Canadian citizen, and currently work in Paris! I am proud to be part of at least three different sets of global villages: that of the diaspora of Filipinos living worldwide, that of fellow foreign workers living abroad, and that of the truly global cities of Paris and Toronto.

Global village of fellow Filipinos It surprised to me notice that there are a lot of Filipinos within Paris. Oftentimes, I notice Filipinos by hearing their conversations rather than seeing them per se. This fills me with a sense of pride that we are dispersed throughout the world and that my global family of fellow Filipinos are accomplishing great things worldwide. Indeed, one of my coworkers is a Filipino citizen but has worked in the United States, Switzerland, and now in France as a postdoctoral researcher. Furthermore, it’s a little taste of home away from home. It keeps me fluent by practicing my Tagalog comprehension – my ears perk up when I hear Tagalog being spoken by passersby. However, it does highlight the fact that while my comprehension of spoken Tagalog is passable, my ability to read and respond in Tagalog is lacking. Global village of other expatriates Within Paris, there are fellow expatriates – people who have come from abroad to work in France. It is heartening to know that I am not the only foreign worker in Paris, far away from their roots with their friends and family. Clearly, there are others in similar situations.

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Daryl David | UN APERçU GLOBAL

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Specific to my workplace, which is composed heavily of scientists from abroad, it is good to know that I am not alone in moving to a different culture. This knowledge also pushes me to persevere since I am surrounded by other career-driven fellows pursuing their goals abroad. International mobility is a rule-of-thumb for academics and more or less a requirement for Canadian academics in science. I proudly share some Canadian traditions with my colleagues in Paris. By now, I believe they have become familiar with Canada Day, (Canadian) Thanksgiving, and our shared commemoration of November the 11th. Of course there are fellow North Americans - and they are not just the Americans. I have already met a few other Canadians and Mexicans in Paris. They are yet another taste of home away from home. When I am truly homesick I can always speak to family and loved ones. If I am craving for a bit more of the Canadian milieu, I am known to attend one of two Canadian pubs in Paris. Maple syrup is also sold here, proudly bearing its Canadian origins. Global villages of Toronto and Paris I am proud to come from Toronto, the largest and arguably the most multicultural city of Canada. I think fondly back to my time in Toronto; its beautiful and varied seasons, its buzzing social scene, and an exciting vibrancy in the air from the intermingling of different cultures. When thinking about traditional Torontonian food, my mind wanders over a wide variety of good food - from the typical North American burgers and fries, to the Filipino food I would eat with my family, to the Chinese food from Toronto’s downtown Chinatown where I lived. Paris is of course another multicultural city. It is the world’s top tourist destination, welcoming 15.5 million foreign tourists in 2013, according to the Parisian tourism office. There is also a wide depth of immigrants and foreign-born workers (now including yours truly). This culture mix creates a Paris that is surprisingly and delightfully multicultural whilst still maintaining its French je ne sais quoi charm. Yes, I have done the stereotypical Parisian things: I love having a picnic lunch on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower, enjoying cheese, red wine, baguettes, and great company! In addition to this, I also frequently dine on Lebanese shawarma, Japanese sushi, and Korean bulgogi. I have also noticed the particular respect that the French have for Canadians. Often, when the French think of Canada, they think of the Quebecois, but also of Canadians in general. I have run into French on the street whose faces light up upon discovering I am Canadian and happily proclaim “Oh, a Canadian! Canada and France are like

cousins!”Canadians are perceived as warm, kind, and patient – I certainly hope that I help contribute to this continued perception! Being mixed in with international colleagues also puts into perspective the concept of learning other languages. Many of my coworkers are from countries that do not have English as their main language. Thus, many of my colleagues not only are learning English and French but also speak their native language! My disappointment that many Canadians struggle to learn French in schools is tempered with the knowledge that, at least in Toronto, many families often speak the language of their ancestral country. Learning another language not only increases chances of employment and is great for the mind; t is also a gateway to learn other cultures and experience other perspectives. Living abroad not only expands our horizons with food and language, but exposes us to different cultures. Cultural differences are sometimes hard to pinpoint but are very real. There are often multiple ways to do something “correctly”, often informed both by underlying social norms and by historical reasons. This concept is conceptually simple but particularly difficult to understand first-hand, particularly those that are entrenched into a certain culture. For example, my first few weeks in Paris are rather amusing in retrospect – I was worried about starving because the grocery stores in my Parisian neighbourhood were closed on Sundays! Why, oh why are stores closed on Sundays in Paris?! This made for rather hungry Sundays, but eventually my schedule adjusted to have food ahead of time. In downtown Toronto I was accustomed to having access to supermarkets nearly 24/7; in France, Sundays are valued as precious time to spend with your family. Most of the stores that are open on Sundays are only open for part of the day. Here, I value the French appreciation for interpersonal communication, for respect for one another, and for time with family and loved ones. I am very proud to be a part of many global villages. I am proud to be a Filipino-Canadian from the multicultural city of Toronto, and enjoying the joie de vivre in Paris. I am happy to be able to call at least three cities home – Manila, Toronto, and Paris. Who knows where the future will take me next!

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Laurice Macaraeg

Culture Shock 126

ost Filipinos would state their reason for immigrating to Canada along the lines of “I want my children to have a better future”. Most of these Filipinos, you will not be surprised to learn, are not in the same career mould or anywhere near the rung on the career ladder that they had back in the Philippines. My parents had already, as they say, “done their time”, and had landed top notch jobs in the Philippines when they decided to go with the popular trend of going abroad. It was thus that the Macaraeg family went to Canada - first the parents, then the oldest son and then the four that had been left behind. My parents had to face unforeseen problems as they emerged one by one. As they stayed on in Canada, it began to seem more and more difficult for them to push on through all their trials. This is why they have always pushed my siblings and me to attain soaring grades in school. Again and again they would remind us to aim for ever higher grades, and sometimes the reminders were not made in the kindest way. We would nevertheless understand that their intentions were chiefly to benefit us. It has been difficult to see past the negativities, but this is what we tried to do. Day in and out, this pressure continued, and there were rare times that I heard positivity around that old, unkempt, rat-infested basement apartment. The atmosphere around the basement wasn’t too pleasant and it got to the point where our parents would lash out hateful words. It was as as if my siblings and I were nothing but tree stumps, with no potential and no future ahead of us. As for the world outside our apartment, my siblings and I felt like a handful of ducks thrown into a pool of swans. We had to force ourselves to blend into the Canadian culture. We didn’t know where, how or with whom to start. We all had our different issues with our culture shock experiences and I was hungry for a sense of familiarity, sensitivity and comfort. I was never a social person , especially as a student in the Philippines. I was comfortable only in the company of my family; and I never liked being alone because I did enjoy growing up with four siblings and was often surrounded by way more than a handful of relatives. Attending school at Saint Francis Xavier Elementary School was the first time I had to make so many assumptions in order to communicate with people of different races, ages and languages. I felt they sent me to this place just so that I can feel alone and, also, so I can be too unique to feel comfortable. Rules were too new and too unfamiliar to me. I

broke so many because I was totally ignorant of them. As a result, I was imitated, mocked and disgraced to my very face. I couldn’t fight back because I was taught never to use my fists, and to use only my mouth with uttermost innocence. I could not, and would not, even if I wanted to. In contrast to this, going home everyday was soothing. It was a place where I could feel secure about myself. Even through the culture shock, my parents still stuck with their Filipino conservative expectations. I kept up with them. My insecurities plunged deep into my thoughts for sometime - until I found my outlets, which are running and music. More importantly, I began my first full committed relationship - . my relationship with God. Since then, I have gained more confidence in myself and have a more positive outlook on life. The arguments at home continued, but I found a better balance between school and home. I believe it is not up to the parents to hand their children their “better futures”– but they can point out stepping stones which can be their bridge over the waters. It is up to the children whether they would like to cross the bridge or not. I now know that it is not up to my parents to tell me who I can become, or what I will become. I believe that trust is to be built on Him, who is the only one who can see the potential I have. He knows I can become a beautiful sculpture from the tree trunk I start from. Looking back at what I have gone through, I am more confident now, more than ever, that I am in the here and now, as a university student, a sibling, a daughter and a friend of God. I will be the architect, engineer and pioneer of the bridge over the uneasy waters for my family. I can fall back on trust, hard work and faith as my foundation.

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Celine Chloe Lopez

NEW KID IN A NEW COUNTRY 128

remember leaving as though it happened yesterday, although in actuality it was almost a year ago. At the same time it seems hazy and faraway, like a familiar scene painted over with watercolour. Everything that happened during that period of time has been immortalized in writings, and music. The exact moment the plane touched down on the runway has been replayed in my head a million times, like a rerun of a TV series one can’t get enough of. It comes with a soundtrack and a voice-over that says: here comes your new life. And indeed, here it is. Today I know my way around the streets of downtown, probably a lot more than my peers do, since they always travel in the safety of their family SUVs. I notice they are immune to the directions provided by the blue signs and do not care where they are headed as long as they get there. I think it is always more interesting to take public transport anyway. Maybe I like it because this way, I am fully able to experience the multiculturalism of the city my parents chose for us to live in. The subway, for example, is always full of interesting people. Never before have I seen so many different backgrounds, cultures, and ethnicities crowded together in one place. I often sit there, somewhat detached, and watch. Mostly I’m interested in what they’re wearing, but sometimes, as I listen to them talk, I wonder what kind of lives they lead. I wonder what their life stories are - if in some way they are like me. Perhaps we are the same - immigrants both in the literal and figurative sense of the word, people trying to find their way in this new land. There is nothing better than meeting a fellow Filipino on the same journey as I. Throughout my grade school years, it has always been stressed that Filipinos are known for their cheerfulness and hospitality. I never realized how true that was until I came to Canada. The traditional values of family togetherness and bayanihan have been carried overseas by most Filipinos I know. They know where people like me are coming from and try to help in any way they can. Whenever I meet a Filipino, even a random passerby on the street, I am always greeted with a warm smile. I take that as an acknowledgement of shared circumstances. Often, as I look at people on the subway, I wonder what brought them here. I think I would be accurate to say that they left an old life back in the Philippines to start a new one here. The old life, I find, can’t be shaken off completely. Sometimes I still wake up and think I’m

somewhere else. At times I think I’m back in my old room, where it has always been warm and so I never had need of a blanket. Sometimes when I think of going home, my mind automatically comes up with an image of the old house. I’ve never really been homesick, though. I’ve never sat down and cried because of what I’m missing. Life here is much, much different now, and at the same time, life back there is changing without me. I am no longer updated on the current events in my homeland. I had missed that monumental junior prom, high school graduation, and everything else that might have happened had I stayed. Too much has gone on in my absence, and all would only end in tears if I were to think about it. So I don’t. Here and now, I go on with my new life. I wake up and go to school in April and May and don’t think that if I were still back there, I wouldn’t have to. I certainly do not miss the humid heat of Philippine summers, where a shower is nothing if not taken two times a day. Instead I welcome the snow, even if I have never been in temperatures below twenty degrees before. I face the challenges of being the new kid in a new country, of a sixteen-year-old stuck in Grade 9. I learn to take every kind of change head-on and try to make the best of it. Here and now is where I am, and here and now is what matters. In less than a year I have managed to absorb a lot of things, partly so I can survive and partly so that it will look like I’ve lived here longer than I have. Maybe by blending in as much as possible, it will make things easier for me to get used to. Maybe people will find it hard to tell I’m new. Maybe all they will know is that I am Filipino, and I am proud of that. Although I have learned to like hockey, Tim Horton’s, and the habit of saying “eh”, I still don’t consider myself Canadian. If I look Filipino, it’s because I am. In three years I will become a citizen of this country. On paper, I will be Canadian. At heart, I am Filipino. No matter where I go or how much things change, that’s what I’ll always be.

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Keith Benedict Villena

A Tale from the Other Side 130

know, you have been crying again. The pillows in your room can only muffle the sound so much. The past few weeks have been hard on you. If you could just raise your head a bit, you will see a majestic landmark just outside your window. There in the distance was once the tallest free standing man-made structure, and I want you to focus on that tower, I want you to be just like it, to stand your ground. In the past few months, I have seen you train to become a team member (service crew) of one if not Canada’s biggest coffee chain. The job you now have was far from what you were aiming for, but you knew you had to start somewhere. Do you remember how you surfed for job postings that were somehow close to the degree you have finished? How none of them accepted you because you don’t have Canadian education or experience. Working there never crossed your mind when you were planning your next milestone in life, but you are there now and you feel blessed. This was your chance. You were trained by patient supervisors, fellow kababayans who were eager to help you out, imparting what you needed to know to become a team member. However, you were impatient; you got frustrated in the smallest of things; even when they did not mind your shortcomings. They told you that you were still in training and there are still ways to go before you can make the coffee order fast. The pressure of your first job has gotten to you and on your first two days in training you cried yourself to sleep. You’ve cried because you realized how hard it was to earn your own keep. You’ve cried because, you were never the journalist you wanted to be. You were so far from who you wanted to become. You can wallow in your sadness and frustration but you can never stay there for long. I would like you to realize that like the tower you see from your window you have to muster the courage to stand your ground, accept your current reality and change it when you are able to. The transition was never easy. There was always the longing to relive the past. Especially when you get to see how your friends are chasing after their dreams back home. How, you once made a promise to chase yours with them. Just being happy for them and accepting that you are on the other side of the world was tough. Then there comes adjustment. You are now one the thousands of Filipinos in Toronto, trying to build up a life in the city of maple trees. Here, you start to feel small, like a speck of dust. Insignificant, lost and unsettled. You have experienced

being belittled because of your hair, skin color and the shape of your eyes. You have heard someone asking in a rude tone why the place you work for hire people of your ethnicity when you don’t speak and understand English very well. Your pride has been scarred but I am just glad you did not fight back. Not that you were scared but because it was not your place to argue, sometimes you just have to put up with people and realize that the problem is not with you but with them. It’s been two months now and you have already got the hang on things. You have come to appreciate the new beginnings that Canada has given to you. You have come to enjoy the city and its people. You have come to savor the pay once bus rides and the unlimited transportation when you have metro pass. You have marveled at skyscrapers taller than the ones you have at home. You have finally seen authentic blond hair and all sort of eye colors up close. You got to have friends from different parts of the Philippines and of the world too. You have come to realize that you are not the only immigrant around because there are almost a hundred thousand of you every year and that you are not just the only one trying to find your place in the world. As the seasons start to change once more from spring to autumn, the bus ride to work every morning did not feel like a burden to you anymore. You have come to terms with your role in the world now. This was the real world, as real as the one you have had imagined when you were in college. You are now able to help your mom with the rent, and pay your own share of bills. You have gotten the financial freedom to buy your own clothes and feel the sting of deciding whether this pair of shoes was a good investment or not. You have come to accept the fact that the road you trek is just a detour to a road which will finally lead you to who you will become. Right now, you are happy planning out your next move in life. You call on the attention of your next guest; you say your greetings and ask them what they would like to have. As you add two shots of cream and a shot of sugar to their coffee, you think of the difference you make to their day and how this has given you a sense of fulfillment. You give them your best smile and wish them a good day as you tell yourself that this is not the end of your dream. Not yet. It is just the beginning. Maybe in a year or so, you will be back to school and upgrade your degree. You will be back on the other side of the counter, asking for your morning coffee, just how you wanted it to be.

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francesca esguerra | Katipunan

awit song

southeast cartel | Kim ‘Rydeen’ Inesorb, Francis ‘Franchizze’ Fabie, at Ian ‘Bustarr’ De Vera

bangon pilipinas 134

Ikay Pinoy! ‘Nag-aalab na Apoy’. Tuloy (tuloy) hangga’t di mo naamoy ang panalo. Sitwasyo’y tila parang kumunoy. Panaho’y magbabago. Hoy! Wag kang managhoy! Pag nagkamali ka, ikay bumalik. Magpakumbaba nang ika’y pumanhik. Magmasid at hindi na muling makinig sa bibig na gusto kang ‘dikdik sa sahig! Gumalaw, wag kang mag antay! Bumitaw sa walang saysay! ‘Kalabaw’ ang nananalaytay.. Isalaysay ang makasaysayang pakikibaka nang makamit hustisya’t tagumpay! Lumalakas ang impluwensya.. Lumalawak, pinagsama ang pwersa.. Lumalaban - tayo ang ebidensya.. Anak ng bayan! Ariin natin ating bayan! koro Tayo’y umahon Tayo’y bumangon Kaya nyo yan Tayo ay lumaban Magkaisa Kapit-kamay Mag-tulungan tayong ibangon ang Pilipinas May isang kwentong nakakatakot Kinikilabot-panay ang kamot ko sa ulo, nabibilaok.

Pagkat di malunok ng isip - mga kurakot ang nanggugulo sa bayan Kelan pa sila aahon? Nang makaahon at makabangon Ano pa ba don? Sana matanggal na lahat ng lason Di maglalaon mga kahapon, nung iniwanan ka namin puro ligaya ang binaon Ano pa bang mas malala Kung sinasamantala Ang pinaglaban nila Kung hindi naman pala aalagaan Lupa’y bibenta sa iba Yaman ng bayan Bakit sagana sa pera at kasibaan Lubos ang gana kung tema mapakinabang Sino pa bang tagamana Kundi mayaman? Kelan pa kaya lalaya ang taong-bayan? Sana bumangon at lumaban ulitin ang koro Pano nga ba bumangon pag walang tumulong? Di sapat ang nakikita kang lugmok, sabay kang igugulong Ibahin na ang motibo, kapwa ay iyong tulungan Di dapat nanlalait kung angat ka sa kahirapan Dapat nang magkaisa, dapat yan ay alam nyo na Di aangat ang isa kung ang isa ay nauna Tao ang lahat, dapat ay pantay Dahil pantay lahat sa hukay ang patay Pera, dyan umiikot ang mundo ng mga nyeta Gobyerno’y di matigil sa pangongolekta Pero san napunta? Di mamahagi tinatago lang ‘to sa bulsa Wala na bang pag-asa, tanong ng karamihan Korapsyon ay ba’t tila hindi maiwasan? Nasa Diyos ang awa, nasa tao ang gawa Walang mangyayari kung lahat puro salita ulitin ang koro

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Lui Queaño

Kwento ng caregiver 136

Bukas nang umaga ikaw ay aalis Patungo sa lupaing hindi mo kilala Baun-baon ay lungkot at pag-aalala Sa iiwan mong sila Bukas nang umaga ika’y magtatanong Anong lungkot, saang sakit ang nadarama Nag-iisa’t humihikbi sa bawat gabing Nag-iipon ng tapang at lakas koro Sapagkat marami na kaming napadpad Sa iba’t-ibang dako’t lupain Patuloy sa paglaban sa kinasadlakan Caregiver sa kung saan-saan (2X) (Migranteng manggagawa) Bukas nang umaga ika’y magpapasya Hindi lungkot, sakit na ang madarama Magtitiyak ng bukas pagkilos at hakbang Migranteng lumalaban ulitin ang koro Patuloy sa paglaban sa kinasadlakan Migranteng manggagawa

Lui Queaño

Babalik Ako sa Montreal Babalik ako sa Montreal Kung saan nandoroon ang kababayan Bawa’t isa ay nagoorganisa Doon ka bilib lumalawak sila Babalik ako sa Montreal Dadalhin ko ang tula at musika Bata matanda may ngipin (man)o wala Tiyak masasaya ang pagsasamasama koro Kahit na malayo at malamig ang panahon Kahit na may gawaing hinaharap Kahit mahal ang pamasahe Mura naman sa bus kaya pwede Basta’t mahalaga makadaop mga kababayan Magtawanan, magkumustahan Magpalawak at mag-organisa

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Lui Queaño

Winter na naman 138

“ dito, kung saan lumalaganap ang taglamig, ating naaalala na tayo’y tao” - Isip-Isipin mo lang, Merlinda Bobis Tag-ulan tungong taglamig daho’y nalalagas Puso’y nanginginig sa hanging humahampas Mainit man ang araw lamig di nalulusaw Puso’y kumakahol, ikaw ang isinisigaw koro Winter na naman parang kayhaba ng panahon Kulang na lang puso’y nagboots na rin Madulas matigas at yelo lahat ng daan Kaya papuntang airport tungong Pinas, Laging inaasam..... Sa subway ng Toronto lahat ay nangangatal Bawat mga kamay nagyayakap na naman Aninag pati sa estribo hiningang umaaso Nakalaylay sa salamin natutunaw na yelo ulitin ang koro Laging inaasam

Nalie Agustin

Bring My Baby Home As a child I have been living in the gutter With my mother, my father passed away… When I was just a little baby. Growing up it was so hard, Need an education but no money… Dreams are so far! War, is everywhere around me. Got to escape this agony. Sacrifices, that’s how life is. Gotta work hard for the ones that I miss. I’m trapped in a maze, once I find my way, it’ll mean better days Sweep, sweep… gotta make that money Weep, weep… I miss my family I’ll keep my head up high, So can I see my “son-rise” I’m struggling… but I will win Oh I will bring my baby home I’m fumbling… but I will win Yes, I will give my child a home I can still hear my boyfriend’s voice Telling me he loves me And that this is my choice He said he’d wait for me, I said take care of our baby. What if, a baby boy can’t remember His mother’s face anymore What if, my boyfriend says it’s too late, I’d rather be poor. I’m young but my life Is skipping some days, I’m getting older. Corruption causes challenges for me to face, How much longer?

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Nalie Agustin | Bring my Baby Home

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Sweep, sweep… gotta make that money Weep, weep, I miss my family I’ll keep my head up high, So I can see my “son-rise” I’m struggling… but I will win Oh I will bring my baby home I’m fumbling… but I will win Yes, I will give my child a home I gotta fight for my rights I will not cry alone at night. No! I gotta get what I deserve. So Let my story be heard I’m struggling… but I will win Oh, I will bring my baby home I’m fumbling… but I will win Yes, I will give my child a home

Levy Abad, Jr.

PARA KAY ELLEN, JOCELYN, SOL, JUANA 141 Mula Hongkong si Ellen ay Nagtungo ng Ontario At doon’y naghanap ng Maayos na trabaho Wala pa mang tatlong buwan Nagkaroon siya ng karamdaman Dahil wala pa siyang OHIP Inabot niya’y kamatayan Ganun din si Jocelyn Nagtungo ng Mississauga At doon nagtrabaho Sa caregiver na programa Wala pa mang isang taon Sinapit niya’y kamatayan Ang ulat ay pinaslang siya Sa kanyang pinapasukan chorus Aawitin ko ang buhay mo Isisigaw ang ‘yong kaapihan Isusulong ko ang iyong Mga karapatan Dahil ikaw ay biktima Ng walang pusong sistema At pamahalaang pabaya interlude Ito namang si Sol ay Namasukan sa Toronto, ‘Di niya inaakalang Haharasin siya ng kanyang amo Buti na lang naka-ugnay agad

Levy Abad, Jr. | Para Kay Ellen, Jocelyn, Sol, Juana Sa Migrante ng Ontario At sa damayang nangyari Siya ay lumaya 142

Si Juana nakumpleto na Ang caregiver requirements Dalawang ulit siyang na-deny Sa kanser niyang karamdaman Bakit pa daw papayagan Mamamatay na rin naman Sa tulong ng komunidad Ang PR ay aprub repeat chorus Si Ellen, Jocelyn Sol at Juana, tayong lahat Itinulak ng kalagayan Mangibayong dagat Hindi dahil sa kapalaran Kung ‘di ito ay patakaran Sistemang nabubuhay Sa ating kamatayan repeat chorus 2x

Levy Abad, Jr.

Canadian Experience Ang doktor nagiging nurse Ang nurse ay health care aid Ang instructor sa kolehiyo Nagiging kargador Ang dentista taxi driver Ang accountant naging waiter Abogado naging driver ng bus Ang chemist nagtitimpla ng kape Doon sa Tim Horton’s Midwife ay nagpapaanak Sa mga hog farm Ang civil engineer Ay piyon sa construction Mga Pinay na mail-to-order bride Ang principal kong kilala Bumagsak na teacher aide Meron naming pulis na naging sikyu Dahil walang trabaho Sa bansang pinanggalingan Kahit ano’y pinapatulan chorus Kailangan daw muna Ay Canadian experience At ang transcript natin ay Kulang pa ng dalawang taon Anuman ang talino at karanasan Halos wala itong kasaysayan interlude

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Levy Abad, Jr. | Canadian Experience

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Kinalimutan muna natin Ang ating mga sarili At inuna ang pambayad ng Apartment at grocery Dahil ito si Mang Winter Ay ‘di maaawa Sa mga walang sipag at tiyaga Kaya kailangan nating Magsikap nang sampung ulit At patunayang kaya nating Abutin ang pangarap At kung sa puso ay may diwa Pa ng damayan Walang di kayang pagtagumpayan ulitin ang chorus

Levy Abad, Jr.

Dito sa Winnipeg Nang ako ay dumating dito sa Winnipeg Napansin ko ang pagtanggap Ng kababayan napakainit Kaya kahit na malamig Hindi mo na mapapansin At ang ilang nakasimangot Madaling patawarin May NDP, may Liberal At mayroong ding Conservative Samot-saring mga Pinoy, mahal pa rin Ako ay namangha sa aking nasaksihan Ang written driving test ng Winnipeg Ay ten dollars lang At may apartment na five hundred fifty Lang na magara At ang hydro at kuryente Napakababa Maiikot mong Winnipeg At mura lamang din mag-bus At kung trip mo ay mas matulin Magtaxi kang madalas chorus 1 Mapa-Polo Park ka man Mapa-Garden City pa Mapa-Casino sa McPhillips Daming Pinoy na makikita Kahit na di ka pa bumati ay babatiin ka Kase ang Pinoy ng Winnipeg naiiba Interlude

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Levy Abad, Jr. | Dito sa Winnipeg

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Laganap ang mga kwento ng maraming tagumpay Mapa-negosyo, mapa-pulitika Makikita ang husay Ngunit kung tayo’y magbabago Ng ugali at kulay Kahit malayo pa ang marating Pagsikat at pagyaman Kung wala ng malasakit at pagdamay Sa kababayan Lahat ito wala na ring saysay At bago ko malimutan Ang pinakamahalaga Ang mga kwento ng pagkilos natin At pagkakaisa Minsan isang kababayan Pinagbintangan na nagnakaw Kilos agad at nagprotesta Nagmartsa at nagbarikada Ang libu-libong Pinoy ng Winnipeg Chorus 2 Mapa-Tindahan Food Mart ka man O Buenos Supermarket Mapa-Youngs, mapa-CBs, mapa La Merage Kung miss mo na ang Pilipinas Pasyal ka lang sa nabanggit Mag-grocery, mananghalian, magsaya Mapa-Maples, mapa-Tyndall Mapa-Burrows man o Wolseley Mapa-Welington o Logan Mga Pinoy solid pa din Kaya kung ikaw ay na-hohomesick ‘Wag ka nang mag dalawang isip Lipat ka na agad dito sa Winnipeg

Levy Abad, Jr.

Sa Atin Walang Autumn Malamig na naman ang ihip ng hangin At nagbabago nang muli ang kulay ng tanawin Ang mga maple ay dilaw at pula ng mga dahon Nalalanta sa pagbabago ng panahon Paikli nang paikli ang sikat ng araw Humahaba ang gabi, paginaw nang paginaw Pasidhi nang pasidhi ang pangarap na Umuwi Ngunit kailangan mag-ipon pa din tayo chorus Dun sa atin walang autumn ngunit mayroong baha At palala nang palala kahirapan ng bansa Nawa’y kahit na palapit nang palapit ‘tong winter Sana may init pa sa damdamin mo Makatulong sa ating mga kababayan Sa panahon ng sakuna at paglaya sa kahirapan At totoo namang palamig nang palamig ang panahon Sana ang puso mong Pinoy ay ‘di ganun. repeat chorus interlude ‘Di natin maiiwasan na maghalintulad Ang tulad nating bahagya naman talagang mas maunlad Kaya kung meron kang kaunting sobra sa ‘yong pinaghirapan Sana naman ang bayan natin ay ‘di mo malimutan Unawa ko kung ikaw ay nagtitiim-bagang Dahil ayaw mong ipakita na puso mo ay luhaan Sinisikap mong magkubli at mag-astang matibay Ngunit ang damadaming Pinoy ay sumisigaw Ngunit damdaming pinoy sumisigaw repeat chorus 2x Sana may init pa, sana may init pa Sana may init pa sa damdamin Mo …

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Levy Abad, Jr.

Hinahanap-hanap Kita 148

Ang linis at ang lapad ng highway 401 Sa gara ng kalye para kang pinaghehele Ngunit kahit na malubak ang SLEx at ang NLEx Hinahanap ko pa rin. Walang kasing ganda ang City ng Toronto Parang naiikot mo na ang buong mundo Ginugulo man ng mga kurap Ang Manila, Davao at Cebu Hinahanap ko pa rin chorus 1 Hinahanap ko ang tilaok ng manok Pagsilang ng bagong umaga Hinahanap ko ang talakayan doon sa tambayan Sarili ba o bayan muna? Hinahanap,hinahanap-hanap Hinahanap kita. Totoo namang maunlad ang buhay dito Doon naman sa atin naghihirap ang mga tao Kaya sa gitna ng saganang dinaranas Ikaw pa rin ang hanap ko

Hinanap kita sa Scarborough Towncentre, Sa Markham, sa Ajax, sa Eaton Mall at Square One Sa Ottawa, sa Hamilton, sa Brampton at sa Barrie Hinahanap, hinahanap-hanap Hinahanap kita chorus 2 Hinahanap ko ang Andoks at ang Max Jollibee, mga gotohan pati na’ng Goldilocks Balita ko ang ganda ng Mall of Asia Hinahanap, hinahanap-hanap Hinahanap kita Anumang tayog at tanyag ng CN Tower Anumang gara at ganda ng Niagara Falls Mapa Montreal, Vancouver o Manitoba Hinahanap, hinahanap-hanap Hinahanap kita Hinahanap ko ang tamis ng yong ngiti Ugali at ang kulay mong kayumanggi Hinahanap ko ang saya pag kapiling ka Sa kabiguan at tagumpay! repeat Chorus 1, then fade

149

bert monterona | Stand by Me

DRAMA DRAMA

Alinor Ngayan

Operetang Maynila 152

Act 1. Scene 1 Curtains drawn. Narrator rushes up to the stage from the very back of the audience. Simultaneously, River Spirits, both coming from the middle part of the audience, enter separately from both sides of stage and wait spaces away from the centre. There is a Chair symbolizing the Employer in centre of stage. A woman carrying a child enters from backstage and stands at a distance from the Chair. She is putting the child to sleep. River Spirits dance through their lines and may sing their lines as much as they want, bel canto, according to their preferred Filipino melody. Narrator acknowledges their presence with a gesture or a Tagalog greeting. narrator Strange things happen everyday. I’ve just been from one strange event! Oh, sometimes it’s a good kind of strange. Yes, in some places, stranger things happen more often in the day. But everywhere, as the poet says, the snow or the rain falls on both the bad and the good. And the sunlight, when it chooses to fall, does not choose where to fall. And strangely enough, we have here two river spirits to welcome us. (Goes past the Woman carrying the child. Stands behind the Chair, puts hand on Chair, but lets go quickly, as if burned. Pulls out a piece of cloth, drapes it on the Chair. On cloth is printed: employer. Goes past the Spirits towards exit. Exits, smiling back at the spirits.) river spirit of the north (holds a bunch of sweetgrass) My rivers and lakes turn into slippery mirrors when the snow falls. That’s when people have time to reflect on themselves, and their lives. They rejoice at their virtue. Or tremble at the mischief they have caused. Though – of course - I have seen some who don’t even care to look into the mirror. river spirit of the south (holds a bamboo pole) My rivers grow muddy when the rains fall. They also grow muddy and smelly when people, and their machines - throw too much into it that the rivers couldn’t carry away. Too many things the sun couldn’t dry out. But there are so many peaceful times that my rivers are so beautiful and peaceful…and anyone could turn into a saint just looking deep into them! Yes, strangely enough, that could happen!

river spirit of the north Many come to the banks of rivers, thinking they search only for water…They really seek more than the river’s water. Many come – they have been coming for decades, centuries…. river spirit of the south Many come to the banks of rivers, thinking to catch fish…Many times, they find lessons they had forgotten, or new things about themselves. Some find the courage to correct some things in their lives. Some decide to take new paths. River Spirits exit. The curtains open to show actors grouped towards left side of stage. Narrator enters, carrying placard saying: manila. Some radio is blaring out a jazzy Filipino-composed song. It’s a busy street in Quiapo, on the way to the great Plaza Miranda, an open cemented place beside the Quiapo Church. Vendors are plying their wares. Young girls and ladies are going around with jasmine garlands, offering it to passersby. Many beggars are passing by to go to their appointed places near the church. Boss Man, who is rather paunchy, and Sergio, his assistant, a thin man, are discussing their trade. Two beggars are following them. The principal characters in this scene, except for the Director and his crew, will be wearing transparent masks, except for certain segments of the scene. boss man So what do I care if you dropped some coins because the police were after you? You know what I ask from you, and it’s the same amount everyday. beggar 1 But that’s what I’m saying, because I was running away, and the small cloth bag you gave me was so old it tore apart, I lost a lot of coins! So I can’t give you your amount in full! boss man Well, if you want to give me a lesser amount, I’ll take you out of downtown Manila, and put you a little ways outside of the city. beggar 1 Please don’t. I won’t be able to survive that way. I’ve got more to feed, now that my wife is pregnant, and she can’t take a job right now. I’ll just give you all I have now, but it still won’t be your full amount… boss man Then you owe me more tomorrow. Write that down!

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila sergio Of course, I’ll put that on his account, boss. (Speaks slowly, same speed as his writing.) 154

boss man What? Don’t you ever learn? Just say, yes, boss! sergio Yes, boss. boss man (To audience) It’s such a nuisance when you get educated people to work for you. They don’t know how to talk to you! (To Sergio) So how’s that girl who sells jasmine garlands up the bridge? sergio Oh, she’s still healthy, judging by her nice cheeks. Don’t you agree? boss man Hell’s bells! Where’s your grey matter? The money, the money! sergio Oh yes, boss. (Rolls his eyes, or some other satirical gesture.) boss man Yes, what? beggar 2 Oh, oh yes, what? She brought in the right amount from the drivers. The drivers all gave in their contributions for you. (Thoroughly disgusted, but mechanically echoing his boss.) boss man O.K., I have to know right away which driver forgot to pay for his protection. I will immediately forget to protect him. (Glares at Sergio because Sergio is repeating his last line.) sergio I will immediately forget to protect him. (Catches Boss Man’s eyes. Startled:) Oh, yes, boss! beggar 2 Boss, I was thinking. I have to stir up the emotions of people, right? They have to pity me so I can dig into their pockets, right? Have you seen those

people who pray, aiming their bodies at the altar everyday - moving slowly, not on their feet, but on their knees? They are really pitiful. They make me cry. Maybe I can do that too? So, get more pity, you know? boss man Look, I’m not boss here for nothing. I always think the best thoughts. First of all, did those people pay you when you cried? May I remind you, you’re not supposed to cry unless you get money for it! Next: nobody prays and begs at the same time! Not in my outfit! If you want to talk to your god, do it on your own time! (To audience) Hey, I get no percentage from his prayers! beggar 3 (Enters, rushing.) Boss, I saw your wife walking from the corner of the church! She was walking in this direction, so I ran to tell you! (Someone crosses the stage; has poster saying: President of the Philippines Godmother at the Wedding of the Gambling Queen!) boss man So now she wants money for her mahjong games again. Put away your notebook. Tear off a blank piece of paper before you keep it. sergio Yes, boss. beggar 3 She may need new shoes because there’s a feast and a dance tomorrow. boss man Maybe I should give her a small business so she’ll know the value of money. Maybe I should link her up with the numbers lottery game gang. beggar 3 (To the audience.)Yeah, she’s some sort of a beggar. Only it’s more like blackmail. I know she knows the Chief of Police. Friend of the family, as they say.(Exits) mrs. boss I dropped by to see how you were. Have you eaten yet? You musn’t miss your meals, you know. (Oversweetly said.) boss man I was thinking of you, too. You’re looking nice though. You don’t look like someone who lost a lot at the mahjong yesterday. (Indifferently)

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (Act 1 Scene 1) mrs. boss That was terrible luck I had yesterday. Now I’ve nothing to give your daughter 156

sergio I don’t have a thing…to give your daughter…(Speech slows fades away as Boss Man glares at him again for echoing Mrs. Boss.) mrs. boss Our princesa is supposed to go to that ball tomorrow, you know. boss man Maybe you should be in something which brings you just winnings everytime. How would you like to join the lottery game industry? (Sarcastic laughter.) mrs. boss Jueteng? Totally out of my style. A gambling queen? No thanks, I don’t like the people in that business. boss man Hmmph. They’re your relatives! mrs. boss My very point. The worst thing is - we’ll have to bribe too many politicians! Director comes onstage, with camera man. Principal characters put down their masks. Other characters on “film set” exit. director No, no, no ! Miss Perez, I don’t appreciate that! Your injection of political content into your lines! Totally out of taste. mrs. boss But I thought that since you wanted to be realistic, I could put in some very real facts. Which everyone knows anyway. director Yes, but we don’t have to publicly say that we know that everyone knows. Especially if somebody up there gets to watch our film. Or if the friends of that somebody up there… do…well, pfft! (Execution gesture) mrs. boss You don’t think we – uhm, I and them, I mean – you don’t think we could

then kiss and make up, you know, while you pay a little tax or so? director No, no, no. I’m not that kind… I want to keep filming down here, where everything’s cheap. Heh heh heh. (To audience) Including you people! I don’t want to risk that! (Back to his cast) O.K., take two! All other actors on stage freeze. “Children-beggars” – some actors from background who pick up costumes from floor and put them on – come forward to sing a Filipino song. Principal actors go back to “set, put on masks and freeze in a tight group, while Director and camera man exit. Another group comes in. They are blocked on another side of stage, but their starting poses are the same as the other “set”at the beginning, so they might be thought to be another “film set”. When they have settled in their places, the actors in the other “set” exit. Workers begin to walk around in a picket line, with placards about unfair labour practices To the side, downstage, a journalist is talking with another journalist. leila So are you really going to ask this Canadian director all of that stuff? may Well, aba, aba, why not? He’ll have to answer me because I’m a Canadian journalist now, you know. It’s the only thing I can be proud of, though it’s really not like living in paradise – how can you feel like that, no matter how better off you are economically, when you’re in exile? I really miss what we do here. (Dressed Western-style, dark glasses and smokes to kingdom come) leila Actually, we miss you too. (Tongue-in-cheek) If only all of this mess could go away! (Pause) Will you be able to show that kind of an interview there, in Canada? may I’ll take the risk. That’s what I’m there for. After all, I asked that famous German director, you know, about how he personally felt about Hitler and about Nazism in Germany! That got through! leila Yeah? Why, how did he answer that? may Oh, he didn’t have to…you know, feel anything about Hitler and all those things because they happened so long ago! I don’t think too many Germans

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (Act 1 Scene 1) were too proud of that answer! (Directs this last line to audience. Someone runs to put a mask to her face.) 158

leila Really? Ha ha ha! And to think that someone here just recently accused Filipinos – they have such a short memory, he said…No sense of history, he said! (Same person runs to put a mask to her face.) So you’ll ask this Canadian director about the Canadian-owned mining company operating in Palawan? may I guess I’ll tell him about it if he doesn’t know! And why don’t I ask him about any Canadian proposals to do open-pit mining for our gold in the Cordilleras? leila You’re so brave! (Faces audience. Rolls her eyes.) So if he protests that this has nothing to do about filming in the Philippines? may Don’t worry. I’ve thought about that. (Flippantly, flicking her cigarette.) Hmm, I’ll say. Does that mean you’re not like the average Canadian, who is known all around the world to be very much interested in human rights issues…excuse me, concerned…about human rights issues, wherever he goes? The protest group and journalists freeze. Enter Chito and his thugs. They stop near the picket line. Chito is a bit of a dandy, and acts like a movie star. The thugs looking at the picket line, gesture to assure Chito they can take care of the problem. chito That problem really worries me. It brings wrinkles to my forehead. I might get too old too fast. thug 1 That’s no good, chief. You won’t look like Philip Salvador anymore. chito Hmmph, pick a younger movie star! Philip Salvador! That’s Lino Brocka’s forgotten time! Look, we can’t impress our employer if we don’t do something about this. You know, he was offering some of us to his Canadian friend. My friend needs the best bodyguards in the world, he said. He’s got a lot to protect around the world.

thug 1 Around the world! That’s where we wanna go! Yah, you bet - we’ll take care of this, chief. chito And don’t forget. I need to change my furniture. You know where to get what I like. thug 2 I remember. But did you want the dark brown coloured one or the light pine-looking one? chito I like it shiny. And watch out for the corners while you’re taking it out. Don’t hurry in taking it out. You’ll ruin it. thug 2 Yeah, I’ll be very sure the owner of the store has his mouth very quiet under some tape! Chito and thugs exit. Thug 2 comes back, aims his gun at the protestors. Someone falls. The protestors and other actors also fall in slow motion to the ground. Some patriotic melody is played. River Spirits of the South and North help the first fallen person up. May, the journalist, takes pictures of him, and records the groans of the dying. The three exit. All actors follow, except for the Filipino women (who were caregiving to the cast of the previous scene,or were following the Director, Mrs. Boss, etc.). River Spirits of the South and North re-enter, humming melodies, to put the Filipino women in their places for the next scene. River Spirits exit. Act 1. Scene 2 Lights moderately up. The River Spirits enter, in brown clothing, one holding a long white cloth, the other holding the end. They each go to the opposite sides of the stage, shake the cloth, making “snowflakes” fly upward. They exit. Spotlights on women: Basilisa, and others. Look at a level higher than audience. Machine comes in, puts masks on their faces. Goes to the side. The women follow her with their eyes and heads, then all eyes and heads turn to the front when Machine has settled down in her position. The women are staring straight at audience at first, and it’s not certain whether they’re frozen or are just too focused on a movie. Sound of a projector doing its job. Then the women speak, but their voices are expressionless.

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 1 Scene 1) Boss, Mrs. Boss and company, cross the stage with Shark-masks on their heads. 160

basilisa So there you are! What a movie, ha? Obviously, we know those Sharks. There’s no denying, I’m sure - that well-suited guy and his aba-naku wife are both sharks! juliet Well, those guys that stick to them like lice...they Really, talaga, look like they’re hungry. And those guys that follow that… (someone whispers: Philip Salvador) Philip Salvador… around like dogsthey also look hungry! Sniffing around like that! basilisa Yeah, they’re little sharks. All of them, after money. Lights up all the way. Sound of a clock chiming in the hour. Machine looks at watch. Sound of projector stops. Machine exits. The women remove their masks. The women’s voices become real, emotional. all the women And they don’t care where the money comes from. They don’t care if they steal the money we create from our sweat and blood! They start acting like themselves, naturally and at ease, but still in their places. They are brushing their hair, looking at the hems of their skirts, checking their nails, checking their shoes, yawning sleepily, etc. betchay Hey, wait a minute! Hold on, girls! basilisa Correction! Women. betchay Sorry, women. (Tells herself) Bow. (Bows deeply.) Kura, kura. Ayan, as they did during the Japanese days of occupation. (Bows again, like one before the Japanese, from the waist). O.K. So, that fat guy who sends beggars off into the streets of Manila, he wants to turn emotions into money, right? Boss wants to cross the stage again, with the journalist May clicking away at him, but near centre stage, someone pulls him back. All three exit.

marlen Hey, begging - that’s a good idea! (Gyrates, makes a little dance and holds out her palm to Betchay, asking for money.) betchay (Slaps Marlen’s hand) But he’s a shark who thinks he’s doing good, because he is making people feel! He is making them feel that they’re not machines. They feel pity, they give money. Then, they feel good, and as for the beggars, they don’t feel hungry anymore. So everyone is a satisfied – all are beneficiaries of this shark! basilisa So then, are you saying by doing everyone a good turn, this shark is a good shark? Wow, is there such a thing – a shark that is good? Come on, Marlen! marlen O.K., he might not be good, but is he a really good shark? That’s what it is, yes! As a shark, he does his role pretty well! Knows how to control people and put them in place. basilisa And “control” means…. what? Like I can control you by giving you too much to eat and you can’t leave right away, so I can make you wash my dishes? betchay Nah, I’ll wash your dishes anyway. Control, like our employers do. An Employer tells people what to do, and no one should say no ! celine Ayun! There! You mean he holds the contract! Our contract. And he can interpret it anyway he likes. Can even ignore it. Tse! Sabi niya. betchay And can manipulate the whole machine – this lcp - that manufactures our daily lives. machine (The actor enters, dancing a machine dance, with twirl-like movement, with a label on her back: lcp machine With back to the audience, at centre, centre stage, with hip-hop rhythm) And you don’t have a say in it at all! Suffer now! No noises! Just suffer! “Bars” roll down in front of each woman. Machine “motors” around. The women freeze, and move only when told by Machine to move.

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 1 Scene 2)

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machine Take a look at Juliet. She has been here for over a year now. O.K., Juliet! (whiplashes her with a strong voice, accompanied by backstage lightning sounds) ballad singer (Sings along with Juliet, who is singing softly. Song: first bars of “Ugoy ng Duyan”. Exits) juliet (Hums the lullabye. A dancer in grey dances to the tune. Juliet then puts down the baby gently, but speaks to it, as if it were a younger sister.) When I was born, you know, my twin came with me. Her name is Misfortune. (Dancer in grey flits into the scene and out.) My twin. She sticks to me like glue. In Singapore, my employer made me work day and late into the night. No day off. No overtime pay. I just sent whatever he gave back home – the larger part anyway. I saved money in a little handkerchief inside my luggage. Then I paid the agency all my hard-earned money just to get here. It would be heaven, I thought – Canada! I was OK at first, but then my first Canadian employer secretly looked for another nanny and then fired me. Now I have to keep your mother happy. But it’s hard, very hard. River Spirit in brown clothing, with the other River Spirit holding the end of her white cloth, brings in a placard: live in requirement employer (Enters. Cranks the Machine. Employer starts to talk to Juliet but Juliet puts a finger to her lips, and takes her outside of the baby’s room. She closes the door slowly) Why don’t you brush the tiles on the kitchen floor? It’s awfully dirty. juliet But I’m still watching the baby. I just put her down. employer You’re cheating. You’re just resting. Go and brush the tiles. The floor has specks and my friends have been noticing them. (Exits) shark My kind of gal! (Follows Employer. Shark has a cut-out of a shark attached to head. From now on Shark will always come around when employer appears.) juliet (Goes back to baby’s room, and swings the cradle.) But all the housework is not included in the contract, I know that.

machine But you can’t say anything. juliet I can’t say anything. Otherwise she will fire me. I don’t want that to happen. I may not be able to complete my two years of living in by the deadline. I can’t complain now. It doesn’t look like I can get out of this, this prison. (Goes back to baby’s room.) Alright, when those two years are over, I will complain. Then I’ll have rights. (Pause) I think. machine Well, I cannot feel pity – I have nerves of steel and a heart of aluminum! So I cannot give you any money. I don’t have a conscience, so I do not feel anything. And I can do anything I want with you – I was built that way! (Exits.) Lights dim. The loneliness Scene river spirits (in brown) (Enter) Take a look at you, Menchie! You’re quite the strong one, aren’t you? Menchie, are you really strong?. menchie Hello, I’m still here! (Shouts at another actress across the stage. It’s dark where she is, as she stands by the window. After a while, she goes back to her chores: washing dishes, vacuuming the floor, taking care of child.) juliet (At the other end, is just going around, doing one thing after another, sometimes overlapping two tasks…Sounds of every task she’s doing are overheard. Then looks out the window) Hello, I’m still here! Can you hear me? Interpretative dance: Work in the house and loneliness. Danced in each their places by two pairs, or by one person and a pair, in different spots of stage. menchie (They switch roles…. Menchie now is just going around, doing one thing after another, sometimes overlapping two tasks…Then looks out the window) Hello! I’m still here! I don’t think she hears me. narrator and river spirits lead a wave of dancers across the stage…slow, angular movements

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 1 Scene 2)

164

all the women: They don’t beg for your pity… Can you hear their hearts ? They don’t beg for your tears… celine Can you feel anything ? (This refrain will come intermittently in caregiver Loneliness scenes, which will be in every other scene of the play. Sometimes these will be added – “Do you feel a sense of justice?” “ Is it your conscience?” Finally, these will be added – “We want to change the machine!” “ The machine is making us all slaves – abused slaves, slaves of abuse, greed and lust!” “ As long as one slave remains, no one is really free!”) River spirits lead them all to exit. act 1. scene 3. Canada. Gala screening night. People are coming out of the moviehouse. Stars of the film – Boss Man, Mrs. Boss, Sergio – and the Director, come out to wave and sign autographs. A Canadian businessman, followed by Chito, greet the celebrities. Narrator comes in, carrying placard saying now showing-poor people’s love. celine What a show, eh? Like a carnival. betchay Like a what? celine You know, a carnival. Karnabal. betchay Oh. I know. A weird place showing weird creatures. A snake with a man’s head. A girl with a spider’s body. A circus of monsters,

celine Yeah, this Shark is a weird one, flashing his knife and bullying everyone around. Talking about this furniture and that place, and everything looks like junk! betchay He talks about a lot of fancy stuff, and talks fancy sometimes, but in the end, he slips and is gross. He’s a crook., after all. celine The king of poor crooks. He reminds me a lot of bullies back home, who always go around with their guns. 90 journalists killed in 10 years. Then 26 in just one day! Over a thousand other people killed by unknown killers. betchay Oh now, you’re reminding me. But just wait a minute, here, aren’t there crooks too? Although their knives and guns are hidden. You have to be very careful and find out where they were they hidden! celine Well, I know my employer always hides some of my salary away from me. Why, I ask him. He says, with a horse’s smile – you don’t work hard enough. The crook! But I pity his poor daughter. Lights dim. Spotlight downstage. Celine goes to it. As if holding a child’s hand while on a stroll, she talks to the child. Someone is kneeling in the shadows. She is praying. She moves towards an “altar”. The dancer in grey goes around her a few times. celine There’s something beautiful about the CN Tower today. That mist of grey over it is like a mushroom cap. Grey. Grey as the breath of winter. That’s my feeling right there. My loneliness. Heavy on my head and my heart. Nevertheless, I talked to my heart, I opened my heart, and took care of the children. Poor children, their parents don’t seem to even want to take care of them. No time, they say. Would that be right to even think? Back home, with my children, I had to find time. You have to. I worked and worked and worked. Three jobs. Shift work in the factory, selling fish in the market on week-ends, or doing laundry for the rich lady on the block. But I still had to cook for my children. What a joy to see their faces light up whenever I cooked adobo! Small pieces of chicken, but so delicious, they’d say. Thank you, mother.

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 1 Scene 2) child (Voice-over) Mama. 166

celine No, my dear. I’m not Mama. But I can give you love anyway. A poor woman’s love. A lonely mother’s love. It’s OK, you’ll be my child. (Embraces child.) What if you were really my child? I’d be so happy. I would no longer have to worry whether you’re doing well in school, whether you have enough to eat. I won’t worry whether you can sleep well because the roof over your head doesn’t have holes. Oh I will then be so sure you are safe and warm. On the other side of the stage, the spotlight turns on Liwayway, as she writes a letter. She is facing the audience. liwayway Dear Mother, if you were only here. If you were here, I would no longer worry. Is your health good? Did you have enough to eat today? Does somebody help you when you go to the market to buy fruits? Can you walk to church on Sunday? Do you still do your walks near the church? On another part of the stage, the spotlight turns on Jan. jan (Holds prayer beads. Prays.) Oh please help my husband. Dear Husband, I am afraid. If you were here, I don’t have to wonder if I could go on trusting you. Or, if we can still have a future together. There are so many women here who have worked so hard to bring their loved ones here, but so many find out it is so hard to become a family again. So many separate and divorce. So many children leave their parents. So many hearts are breaking. narrator (Walks around, writing on a piece of paper which rolls out like a roll of toilet paper – a list of tasks she or he wants the caregiver to do….it is not the paper the caregiver wants –“ the golden paper”. Some one brings a placard close to the employer and to the paper: placard says “This is NOT the Golden Paper”! Employer nudges Betchay, who was watching the actors. Gestures that she should go back to work.) narrator (follows Employer, looks over his shoulder. Winks at the audience. Makes gestures about head, meaning:craziness). narrator and river spirits lead a wave of dancers, following the employer across the stage….slow, angular movements As they dance, they chant: They don’t beg for your pity…

Can you hear their hearts ? They don’t beg for your tears… basilisa Can you hear your conscience ? Someone helps the praying woman to stand up. People come in with placards: waves of migration; 1970s to 1980s; 1990s to 2000; 2000-2007 act 2. scene 1. Instrumental music. River Spirit of the South enters, sprinkles snow and exits. Song: “There is More Joy Somewhere”. Singers enter to sing, and exit after song. The protestors are chanting. It is hard for the characters to speak to each other. Loudspeakers blare from time to time. Sounds from protestors diminish. journalist 1(May or Leila) Pardon me? protestor 1 I said, we hold this rally in front of the Philippine consulate because we need the consular officials to really listen this time. When you involve the public, these officials grow ears. journalist 1 Can’t you just go inside and talk to them? protestor 1 One of us talked to them about the way they keep asking for fees whenever we change employers. No, no ears. That’s the rule, girls and boys! That’s that. We are told to go away! So we go back and suffer. journalist 1 Then if it’s a matter of rules, then of course you can’t do anything, right? protestor 1 I’ll ask you something. Are rules always correct? journalist 1 No, so you need to talk with those who make the rules about your work. protestor 1 Look, a person goes to a representative of the government here. He just

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 1 Scene 3) hits his head against this small wall – maybe it’s a dry wall. But it’s violent enough. If you were in that person’s shoes, would you want to try talking with a concrete wall? And then there’s a marble wall. 168

journalist 2 So if you speak out here to the public, they listen? protestor 1 The public has power, even if people don’t believe it. The public pays taxes. Because people have to pay taxes, they want to vote for the right people. If the right people get into government, then it’s a new game. Everyone has to learn the new game, right? journalist 2 What if the right people don’t get into government? protestor 1 If the same old people stay in power, and the people still publicly talk about that, then it’s still a new game! So, the lesson is: speaking publicly is important. I know that you know that, and that’s why you’re here. journalist 2 I’m here because you have guts enough to do this. protestor 1 No, actually you’re here because you want to speak publicly too, but since you’re a journalist, you can just write about people speaking for you. You also want the agenda to change. Not according to the box that your editorial staff sets, but in your way. journalist 1 But don’t you think your campaign has a weakness? The way I see it, these things have to do more with the government of the Philippines than the governments of Canada! protestor 1 When we talk about work and foreign workers here in Canada, you cannot say that it has to do more with one government than another. It’s one big world, as they say. Actually there’s just this small world made up of little and big countries, and there are these very few giant corporations which are tying up their assets in different places, It’s very simple! These corporations can buy anything! They are the marble walls! They are the diamond walls!

Lights dim on this scene, and the actors freeze. Song. The singers enter and step into spotlight before the journalists and protestor. “They’re taking it all away” After the song, Shark (with mask) comes in to drive the singers out. Chito and his thugs enter and group on other side of stage. chito This looks very familiar! Boys, we have to make our reports! His thugs take out their cameras and take pictures. They even get a little closer to the journalists and take pictures of them too. Chito and thugs exit.Thug 1 returns and points his gun at the protestors, but Chito comes back and pulls him out. The Shark drives everyone out. Two immigrant women come in. They have been to a lawyer. They are walking inside the mall. As they talk to each other, and stop when the River Spirit of the North brings in a placard saying: immigrant stories. Singers come in to sing: “Roll Down” Singers exit after song. immigrant woman 1 (Heavy Filipino accent) My lucky day! I had a friend who could translate for me! Otherwise I would have gone crazy! And then the lawyer wouldn’t understand me. immigrant woman 2 So the police were going to take your son away? immigrant woman 1 I thought I was in a police state! It was horrifying! They said, you can’t take care of your son, so we’ll take him to the Society! immigrant woman 2 I knew that they don’t want young children being alone inside their homes, and that you could be charged for leaving them alone like that. immigrant woman 1 But I was just going for an interview inside one of the business offices in the mall, so I told him to stay in the food court and just wait for me. The police said, what if someone kidnapped him? I didn’t know that this could happen here! immigrant woman 2 You know, I wonder if they would do that to you if your skin had another

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 2 Scene 1)

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colour and if you spoke in another kind of way, you know? A friend of mine, she said, you never know what could happen to you. We’re immigrants, you know. She’s Italian, and her parents told her of those war times. They had come here years before the war. But then, when Fascism happened in Italy, everyone looked at them and saw only Fascism in them! immigrant woman 1 I know what you mean. immigrant woman 2 Soon they were being fingerprinted. Then they were arrested and put into prisons. Then they were brought to Camp Petawawa! immigrant woman 1 Horrible, horrible. immigrant woman 2 But to go back to children, while we have no one to take care of our children while we look for work or when we go to work, the women who have enough money can hire us to take care of their children. So, here’s a problem. If their children, who are looked after by caregivers, caregivers who have no authority to discipline them, when their children begin to take drugs or go into petty theft, are they taken away from their parents? immigrant woman 1 I’m a caregiver myself. I just take it upon myself to at least remind the children that drugs are not good for them. They pass by a youth who is seated on a bench, reading. security guard What are you doing here? I told you to go somewhere else. Go home! filipino youth But I’m waiting for my friend. He’s giving me a ride home. security guard I don’t care. No loitering here. filipino youth I’m not loitering. I’m reading. security guard If I come back and see you here, I’ll arrest you.

immigrant woman 2 You can’t do that. Only policeman do that. security guard That’s what you think! (Exit) All exit. Song. The Dance of Fear that follows is done to a dark, and weird melody (an improvised one is preferable). Dance of Fear is a fantasy dance involving masked figures in exotic clothing. Their pawn, who is always being attacked by Fear, is the Immigrant Worker, in black clothing. There are three dancers – one representing governments and multinational companies, the second, Fear, and the third, the immigrant worker. After the dance, the Director steps up, out of the group of singers. director This is just my dream. I toyed with the idea yesterday, but I don’t think I can do it. I would like to be some kind of Antonioni or Pasolini, but…I might have the same genius, but I don’t think I have the same kind of guts. So I just fritter my time away, drinking it up with my potential producers. Enter Businessman, his sidekick, Chito all holding glasses of wine. businessman (Hands Director a glass) Hey, amigo! What’s your next film? I think I could donate something, especially if it’s a period film and shows a lot of costumes and a lot of singing. Filipinos love that, you know. businessman’s sidekick And a lot of ladies, you know what I mean! A lot! businessman Yeah! Speak up, young man! I saw a lot of videos on the internet showing some nice-looking ladies who can be hired as nannies! Hey, they’re all intelligent – some of them can even speak four languages because they’ve been abroad to so many countries. They can speak Arabic, Dutch, German… you name it! They can put a lot of these prima donna stars to shame! Cheap, too! businessman’s sidekick And you can teach them to sing and… sing some nice songs! businessman Oh, come on, are you getting shy? You can make them dance any kind of

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 2 Scene 1) dance! These Filipinas are like exotic birds!

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chito I know where to catch these exotic birds. Just let me know and I’ll put out my traps. I can even set my boat up, hold a little party and they’ll come flocking. director You’ve come a long way, Chito. You used to just rake in pesos, but look at you, you smell of dollars! chito Well, I make myself busy, you know. I round up these insurance agents and real estate agents and goodness gracious, also employment agents. All these people who are eager to make good business. If you ask me, these are people who know that having fun is also the best way to find good business! Since you’re not asking me, I’ll tell you what I do… I plan a little stand-up comedy skit at my little boat, invite them all and their little gals who are just so lonely they love cheering up, you know.… So my boat is always full! director Is that your part time job when your big boss is away on vacation? Stand-up comedy! Who writes them? Maybe I can use your writer sometime! chito Hmmm. Best not to tell you more about this. It’s too complicated. But yes, when I’m not his bodyguard, I’m this guy’s bodyguard (points to Businessman), and I got this part-time job. director And I guess you now put your best furniture in your boat? chito You know me, I do my best! And so do my boys! I’ve got more boys now, you know! There are all sorts you can get in this country! All very cheap! River Spirits come in, holding up placards: stink. Exit. act 2. scene 2. Bus stop. Enter Betchay and Celine. They have just been from another movie, and they sit down to wait for the bus.

betchay You haven’t heard this story. celine Let me hear it then. (Chants) Killing time again! While we wait for those slowpokes from Oakville. betchay It was very strange. I couldn’t understand it at first. I was going out, wearing my formal pants, and my leather jacket was hanging from my arm. I had my formal white polo shirt, because I was going to an “educational meeting”. That’s what this man told me. Educational meeting, sus! So, as I was going out the door, my employer came down the stairs, and she screamed! celine Ha? She screamed at you? Betchay!!!! Like that? betchay No, she just screamed like a scared cat, her curls springing out to the sky! (Screams.) I asked her – what’s the matter? It’s you?- she said, you stupid so-and-so, why are you dressed like that? I thought a man had broken into the house! What a laugh! The meeting? It turned out to be a life insurance information meeting, hmmph! So I came back home early. My employer called for me. celine Betchay! Come up right away! betchay Yeah, like that. What now?- I said to myself, she never calls me into her room unless she wants me to clean it. Clean it, at 7 p.m.? (Removes jacket.) O.K., I went in. It was a bit dark in there. She turned on the light…And… celine Quit the suspense naman! betchay And she was naked! Can you imagine? celine Ha? (Then she turns up her nose, thinking Betchay is making fun of her. Turns away from her.) Hay naku, ha? Bad, ridiculous joke, Betchay!

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 2 Scene 1) betchay No joking! Then she faced her full-length mirror and asked… 174

celine Did she say – Who’s the most beautiful of us all? betchay No! The evil evil Aunt said: Do you find me attractive? So I said- No, I find you disgusting! People from our country don’t show themselves like that to their employees! celine (Laughs) If you don’t stop this, Cinderella, I’ll be laughing and laughing till I choke and die! betchay Don’t die before the ending! So I started thinking – What is this woman up to? Was she recording me on her camera hidden away somewhere? celine I told you, they always have something hidden…(Acts coy) betchay Then, the next day, I saw the woman from my agency in the mall, interviewing some women. (Acts as if the agent is onstage with her.) She didn’t want to acknowledge my greetings, so I just stood there beside her until she had to greet me back. The day after that, I saw her in the house, talking to my employer. (Peeks into the room.) I was going out shopping with you, remember? Something told me to go home early. celine Go home, go home! (whispering) betchay When I got back, the front door was open. So I was able to go in without the alarm going off. I heard them talking. (Changes voice to employer’s voice) Give me my half of her placement fee – my employer said. (Changes voice to agent’s voice.) You have to dismiss her soon – the agent said, how are you going to do that? Leave that to me- my wicked, crazy, employer said. You better make sure the other girl comes in before the month is over … celine So these two had a deal going on – they split the placement fee of every new

caregiver, after three months! How cheap! So that’s why she dropped her clothes in front of you! betchay Correct! How cheaply they get us! So do I want to dismissed because of some petty crime? No! So when she said – (Changes voice) Hey, I’m going out of town and you’ll have to be all alone in this house; you can do whatever you want to do – I said to myself, I won’t open the door to anyone, or any of my friends. I won’t even open the door to that nurse who is going to give me a check-up for that insurance agency. I won’t give her neighbour friends anything to report. celine (Has been imitating Betchay’s movements as she enacts the story.) You’re very sharp, ha? I’ll vote for you next time! betchay So later she began her speech: You know, you’re very good at taking care of children, and you’re very good at cleaning the house. The only thing is, you’re not good in the… celine Hmmmm? (Wiggling her hips very daintily.) betchay In the kitchen! Well, I said, you’re not happy with me, but I, too, am not happy with you. So I’ll leave you. narrator (Tango melody) Recruitment agents, insurance agents, moneylenders – With employers, all of them conspire… Banking on each other’s greed, They can bleed the caregivers dry indeed! While we, in our prisons, try not to expire! (Last line repeated in a chant.) all We try not to expire…We just perspire…A lot! machine Come everyone! (All abusers get behind the machine.) Dance of the machine. Abusers step out of the Machine to pull the waves of migration, lining-up (line dancing?) to get money from the migrants, as they go past the machine. Abusers step out again to line up, getting money again

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 2 Scene 2) as the migrants go past the machine. The migrants faint in the end, and are carried away by other actors. 176

act 2. scene 3. Woman comes in, cradling a child in her arms. She is putting the child to sleep. She stands near the Employer’s Chair. Singer comes in to sing the next bars of “Sa Ugoy ng Duyan”. She goes to the Chair and takes it out. She fetches Woman and all exit. Marcos, Minions, etc. enter. When they have taken their places, Narrator enters. narrator Here are some ghosts who seem to be very much alive. They continue to sow disruption and chaos - and the terror of poverty! I present to you, the late dictator Marcos, his minions, the foremost ladies of the land, and the Politician. Like the Sharks and their running dogs, they never waste a minute without taking profit. They could run away for sometime, because they’re more clever than the Shark, but they come back, and sow terror once again! ghost of marcos and his minions Let us lay the trap…. (Shark cardboard posters swimming above everyone) ghost of marcos (Has a name-tag across his back: dictator. Calls his minions) What are we to do with the numbers of unemployed? And those swarming the picketlines? And those farmers whose lands the agribusinesses want? minion aaa Easy…put up the employment agencies for working abroad... minion bbb Factory workers for Saudi… minion ccc Nurses for Jeddah… minion ddd Farmer’s wives and daughters for Canada…

ghost of marcos All other disgruntled people…Including artists… minion aaa We also need to lay a trap outside of the country ghost of marcos and minions (mime laying the invisible “Trap” everywhere, to the tune of Planting Rice) politician (Has politician across his back, has extra big pockets) This is more fun than planting rice! people It’s not fun for us! ghost of marcos No expenses on the government side – maybe three pennies? All expenses on the disgruntled… A wonderful trap, worth the three pennies… And saliva! To glue the words together! And the pen! To put a seal on the words! imelda/ gloria (tearful) They don’t understand how much I want to save them, to sculpt their lives For the true, the good and the beautiful in life I want to show the world how proud I am of them These strong and beautiful people Starve them, and they grow stronger Enslave them, and they become creative Artists of life! Long live! Mabuhay! ballad singer There are children of the gods, narrator And there are children of sweat…Which one are you? worker You think you got out of the trap Then you suddenly see the bars… And another lock stares at you!

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 2 Scene 3) Darkness. There are white-gloved hands moving in the darkness – washing plates, drying plates, putting laundry into the machines, folding laundry, mopping, scrubbing, etc. Sounds overheard. 178

employer (voice over) Hey, what did you do to my bunch of organic carrots? You thief, you’re fired! Where is my pink pantie? Give it to me! Don’t touch the fruits in the refrigerator – I have to divide them first, so you can eat your half. Why are you bringing unholy food in this house? You’re making my house unholy! You’re fired! Loneliness scene again: Hello, I’m still here – shouts one actress across the stage.- it’s dark where she is, standing by the window. at the other end, the other actress is just going around, doing one thing after another, sometimes overlapping two tasks… then they switch roles. Placards are carried in: Recruitment fees, Placement fees, Temporary Work Permit Fees, Open Permit Fees, Processing Fees for Landed Immigrant Applications, Other Processing Fees, Board and Lodging Fees given to Employers. act 2. scene 4. shark Two kinds of offspring on this earth. One kind springs off from gods. To these people I belong, and these people belong to me! Next, the kind that springs off from the sweat of the poor. They, of course, can belong to us, and that way, they can live! A third kind? Zero! Zilts. Where do you belong? ghost of marcos I’m, certainly and absolutely, the first of the first kind. I dictate history. I control history. I also control his story; her story. As long as I live, nothing, and no one, can escape my traps. After me, my traps will live on…As surely as my offspring will live on… imelda-gloria Some levels of history, I can also dictate- for example, art…culture. I only have to raise my pointing finger, and art and culture move! I compel them to move! It doesn’t matter how the economy behaves, because as long as I know that there are poor people who belong to us, we will always be rich!

3-in-1 (Take long strides together. Bureaucrat-Businessman always in front) History? Ecchhh! For us, it’s money that really counts. That’s the real truth. All these politicians – they just talk, just spit, just for show. But I, I always tell you the naked truth – I tell you, truth is gold! 1. bureaucrat-businessman (steps out to the right) I worry whether this world runs or not. So I always focus on the business side of things, and the best way to do that is to be in government. (steps back in) 2. rich lanlord (steps to the left) I worry whether my lands run well, so I have to tag along with him, and him! (steps back in) 3. foreign businessman-bureaucrat (steps out to the right) I have the most money here – dollars, you know - so everyone else tags along with me. (the other two step back in behind him) basilisa Shut up! Step back, you three-headed dog! This play cannot continue without us, who will show you that you are wrong! The world, and history, runs on some other principle! I was a teacher in the Philippines, and I tried to develop real students, who could one day lead the people in the right path. In desperation, I came here to work, so that my children could have something on their table. I end up paying taxes to both governments – Philippine and Canadian and I couldn’t understand why. I also couldn’t understand why, despite all my work and the taxes I pay, I have to suffer more than two years before I can have a permanent status! It doesn’t make sense! basilisa I am Juliet. You know, such a romantic name, so I don’t like it. I don’t feel that my life here is romantic. I don’t feel like I’m living a dream life. I feel like a machine most of the time. liwayway My name is Liwayway, and that means the light of dawn, symbolizing the hope that another day brings. I used to be a nurse. I keep hoping that I can somehow be like this light of dawn for others. Right now, I have to get up at the crack of dawn before my employer gets up.

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 2 Scene 3) The light dims. The “Moon” begins to have a shadow – slowly it will show up that it was the Shark’s shadow! The Shark completely obliterates the “Moon”. 180

act 3. scene 1. Placards brought in: ottawa. the campaign for changes. worker This is our petition for the changes we need. other caregivers We need freedom and justice! We need freedom and justice! politician (Reading) I don’t see why your demands are too extreme…I don’t see any reason why you should ask so much… worker Something wrong with your eyes? You have to see an opthalmologist first… Or maybe get a telescope… Your world is so far away from my world…. politician Where are the others? There are only two hundred signatures in here! Who will believe in small numbers? worker As long as there’s one slave.slavery exists! My world is just inside your house (To Employer) But it’s so far away! You made it so far away! Music: Beethoven’s Fifth Dance of ghost of marcos, his minions and imelda-gloria (some of them in military clothes) sending out the workers into the rest of the world. The machine comes in and dances with them. narrator How can I show you the utter isolation of the caregiver in the workplace? Dim lights. male caregiver (Is standing, but pretends he is lying in his bed. His eyes are closed.He is restless. He is always trying to get up to get his medicine. After taking medicine, he returns to bed, almost crawling. In bed,

again, he is restless ) Hey, wake up! Please. You and I have to work. You can’t be sick. river spirit (Stands at a distance from Male Caregiver, and while she pretends to put his arm up, the Caregiver puts up his arm. Then puts it down.) This is your arm. Can you feel it? male caregiver (Puts up arm, then puts it down.) What’s the matter with you? I can’t even move you the way I want to. I know I’ve been using you too much. You’ve been very good. He’s been very heavy. Your big muscles paid off. You and the other arm are really good. You know, my mother is already sick, so we can’t have problems. Everything has to be smooth, I should give this poor man good service, give him his catheter and help him get rid of his waste. We can’t add to my mother’s problems by being sick. Male Caregiver goes over to the Chair, and struggles to lift an imaginary person from the Chair to an examination bed nearby. He helps him lie down. He applies catheter to the person. He guides tube to a container near the bed. Then he sighs and stands, eyes closed near the Chair. river spirit This is your wrist. (Pretends to put it up, then down.) male caregiver (Puts up wrist, then puts it down.) I’ve been giving you some nice healing cream. I know I have to take very good care of you because you have to do a lot of massaging! Get well soon! We should send my mother something to pay for the hospital bills. She didn’t even want to tell me she was in the hospital. Good my cousin in the next village found out and called me right away. river spirit Let me rest your neck on these pillows. Give it a break, you know. . (Pretends to move his neck) male caregiver (Moves his neck.) I haven’t given you a proper rest for a long time. I know that sometimes, I’m so exhausted I have to sleep while sitting on a chair, and that’s no good for you. It’s a long time, while I’m doing the four hours of work with the catheter. Then I have to give him a massage. river spirit This is your leg. (Pretends to raise his leg.)

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 2 Scene 4)

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male caregiver (Raises his leg) Oh, my sturdy leg! You’ve been keeping me up all the time! You’ve brought me to many places before. No place as terrible as this, though. I remember when you were still short and wearing those short pants. I learned so many things from mother, you know. I followed her when she brought babies into this world. I was so young then, but I loved watching all those babies come out and open their mouths to cry! (Coughs.) river spirit (Pretends to pull him up a little.) Here, why don’t you sit up a little. Try to take some deep breaths. It will clear your chest a little. male caregiver (Moves himself up a bit.) Oh, my poor chest. I don’t even have time to have my daily exercise. No pushups. Can’t even take short walks. I have just some little time to sleep, then I have to work the next shift. When I was young, and became sick, my mother would give me all sorts of cures – my hot lemon cure, or my guava cure, or my ginger rub! How I’d love any of those right now! When I became a nurse, she was so proud of me! My sisters were also proud of me! river spirit (Turns his head this way and that, for exercise.) And this one’s your head! male caregiver (Moves his head in same direction) I’m sorry, my aching head. I know you’ve got a lot of problems and tensions. You know you have to make up your mind and get well! You must think that you can make it! I know that you had to accept that you had to do two shifts again yesterday, and say that you’re strong! I know he’s crazy enough as it is, but you don’t want to make this employer more crazy and say that you’re lazy, can’t do the job, and make up a reason for not paying my salary! And he’s going on his vacation soon! He might try to wiggle out of paying me so that he can have more to spend! Oh, why am I saying all these bad things about my employer? river spirit (Goes near him) Well, your life isn’t exactly a dream. Monching! Monching! male caregiver What’s that? Who’s calling me? (Wakes up) I’m feeling so lousy, but I can’t stay in bed! I know that my employer cheated. He said, as it is written in the

contract, that there would be two caregivers. Here we are, two caregivers in the same body! One to catheterize him for four hours in the daytime, the second to do it in the night time. After the catheter, the massage. I don’t want to kill you, my body….but you have to be strong! Be strong! (Falls asleep again.) river spirit Are you really just a caregiver? Why are you trying so hard to imitate Christ on the cross? Are you a saint? act 3. scene 2. Caregivers in spotlights. A third caregiver enters. She walks towards Chair. She stops halfway. She turns back. After some steps, she heads back towards the chair. She stops before a “door”, and slowly opens the “door”. She goes “in”,and goes beside the Chair, looking at it. narrator We were in search of water. Water brought us all to this land. Water, fluid and shining like our hope, from one land to another. Let the water show us what we are, and what we can be. Let water inspire us. Also, let water show us the many shadows falling on the bright, shining water. The shadows of greed, selfishness… the ambition of others. We have to listen to the voices on which these shadows have fallen. We have to listen to their monologues. Their stories are not isolated cases. Their stories are stories of many people who have had to live in isolation. People who have had to live in prisons. pregnant caregiver (liwayway) Please don’t fire me. I’ll have to look for another employer and…I might not be able to complete my required two years of living in. employer You should have thought of that when you went on your back and enjoyed yourself! pregnant caregiverPlease allow me to have my landed status, so that I can bring my children over. employer It says here (reads letter): You are one month short of your two years! hahaha! You should have thought of so many things before you went ahead and enjoyed yourself!

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 3 Scene 2) pregnant caregiver Please give me a check-up. I want to make sure my child is alright. 184

employer (puts on gown of nurse) Oh, sorry. You don’t have medical benefits anymore. You know that. You don’t have a work permit. Find an employer first, then you can come back and ask. pregnant caregiver I think of you all the time, my daughter. My lovely daughter. My sweet daughter. I think of you among these wonderful trees, these friends who listen to me. I want to hang your picture on every tree in this park, so people will know you. I will say, I love her so. I want to talk to you all the time. I want to tell you about all the moments of my life here. But I just think now, now that you cannot be here with me, that you have a good life nevertheless, because I can send you some money, and you can have a roof over your head. You can go to school. You have a bed to sleep in. You can go to university someday. I only have to go on, keeping my loneliness and sadness inside, and just care for the people here…just as I would care for you. I only have to think, if I do my job well, though I have to sleep with my sadness and my loneliness every night, I will be doing a good thing…for everyone. river spirit For everyone? Except yourself. You were a nurse once upon a time – three times before. In Libya, for 3 years. In Saudi, for 2 years. In Singapore, for 2 years more. A good thing for everyone? Except for your children and husband. Except that your family misses you and needs you to be close to them, to be beside them. They need you just as much as they need food and shelter. You have to act now, to protect yourself; to ensure your family’s wellbeing. basilisa What’s the matter with you, I asked my student. You are always sleepy in class. You can’t learn too much that way. Ma’am, she said, I had to take care of my brother for two days, and then I had to take him to the doctor yesterday. My mother isn’t here – she works abroad. My father went to work in the sugar cane fields in the next town. At least she and her brother had better food than my other students. Yes, poverty is a sickness that is killing so many of us. But I taught history, and I would tell them that many of our ancestors worked so hard to make life better for us. They developed our fertile lands. They traded with China and India. They established laws. They had a

flourishing culture, with its own myths, an alphabet, theatre. Then Spaniards came, and they fought the Spaniards for more than three centuries, and finally established a revolutionary government. Singer enter to sing “Kundiman ni Abdon”. The River Spirits come in to bring her out. basilisa The Americans came, waving the Treaty of Paris and claiming our lands. They fought against the Americans. Millions were killed before the Americans could set up their government. I told them, that really, it was the Filipino guerilla army that fought and protected our people against the Japanese armies. When our turn comes, I told them, we must ask ourselves what we can do – to make life better for our children. So, when my turn came, I decided to work abroad. I knew that I and my family were going to pay a high price – we would lose so many years of a life together, years of loneliness, uncertainty. Then, there would be debts I’d have to pay, because to get out of the country, I needed to pay the agency, the government, and so many people who were putting out their hands as you asked them to open the exit doors. Yes, I knew there were also dangers abroad. Flor Contemplacion was hanged in Singapore because they said she had killed the child in her care. Sarah Balabagan was lashed a hundred times because she killed the employer who raped her. At the time, I said to myself– my children need a better life. But now I, having lived the so-called life abroad, I find that I, too, need a better life. If I don’t find a better life, what kind of legacy would I leave my children? Slavery? Dance of the Machine. The workers are now very sad, as they move. act 3. scene 3. narrator Winter and death. Winter is when you can look at the sun. You can see the sun’s outline, very much like the moon. You can see it clearly. You are not dazzled by its brilliance. Here in winter, in Canada, you can also see, quite clearly, what the Live-in Caregiver Program is. It’s a machine. A thing created by those who can use it for anything they want. The creators of the machine, and those who control it, can use it to control us. Through it, they can milk anything they want from the caregivers. Their hard-earned money. Their time, which their family should have had. Love and care. Even their feelings of humanity for others – even that, they

185

Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 3 Scene 3) can drain away from the caregivers. Death. Watch these death scenes carefully. Watch and compare. 186

Setting: Dim lights. Two caregivers at the bier of an elderly woman whom they had cared for. They talk about what they felt when they were providing care – what the woman’s children wanted them to do, and what in the end, they asked them not to do. They talk about their being conscience-stricken. They also talk about their own mothers. caregiver 1 I couldn’t sleep. For several nights now, I just couldn’t sleep, thinking of her. caregiver 2 I would have told you, try not to. But then, we were together when it happened. We both know how it was. You and I have to think about it. Try to think that we did everything we could to keep her alive. caregiver 1 I couldn’t do it, without having felt something. Even if it were a sick old dog, I couldn’t, you know! caregiver 2 I still don’t understand them. I don’t think I even want to understand why they could do that to their own mother. caregiver 1 I can’t, I can’t! She gave birth to all of them…She and her husband were poor when they married, and she took care of all of them at first. I don’t why they are so…. caregiver 2 The rich are something else. I think they value everything by the amount of money attached to things. Or persons. They translate everything into something they can buy. (Laughs a dry laugh.) Ha-ha-ha. Did you know, the sun, the moon, and everything else, maybe even you, who knows, are already for sale on the internet? caregiver 1 But this is not funny! It’s like they bought our work and our time, so that we could help them give their mother an early death!

caregiver 2 Well, admit that at first, we thought that we were doing her a favour by bringing her out, from one event to the other. She was the oldest party girl that I ever saw! caregiver 1 It isn’t funny at all. Especially when she began complaining that she was feeling tired. On her visits to the doctor, I would have liked to be inside the room while he told her about her health. Then I would have known what to do! caregiver 2 know. You were thinking like I was thinking… as if she were our own mother. caregiver 1 But they wouldn’t let us in. They never let us in. caregiver 2 If my mother were sick, and I had the money to hire nurses or caregivers, I would have explained her illness, and asked them to be very careful with her. I would have given strict instructions. caregiver 1 I was really troubled when my mother was sick. I didn’t want to lose her. Not that sweet woman! She sacrificed a lot so we could go to school – she borrowed money from the moneylenders, you know. caregiver 2 Yes, I know. Mine did, too. They’re like… caregiver 1 Saints. Yes. It seems now to me that they were sending her to her death, when they kept bringing her to this event and that event, to this party and that party! The poor woman had to be lifted into her chair, dragged to social activities…I don’t know that she enjoyed them! She kept falling asleep in her wheelchair! caregiver 2 And then she became really weak. caregiver 1 And then we had to bring her from time to time to the hospital for blood transfusions.

187

Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 3 Scene 3) caregiver 2 She was getting so thin. 188

caregiver 1 We had to feed her, and she would smile everytime at us. Thank you, she would say. caregiver 2 And then they started to give us their strange orders. Don’t give her too much. caregiver 1 Don’t give her too much medicine. Just this. Throw that away. caregiver 2 I would brush her hair, and they’d look at me strangely. Do you have to do that, they’d say. caregiver 1 You don’t have to give her dessert. caregiver 2 By then, I began to wonder: Did they get her signature on the will? caregiver 1 They must have. I just took care of her, as we always did. caregiver 2 Except when they came in. caregiver 1 It really makes me shiver even now. Stop that, her daughter said, and when I looked at her in shock, she slapped my hand. No feeding at evening or morning. Just once a day! caregiver 2 But she was always hungry, and would beg us. caregiver 1 Please, I’m hungry, give me food. And we’d hurry, to give her even just a little, before any one of them could come in, checking on us. caregiver 2 I didn’t want to be fired and leave her.

caregiver 1 Neither did I, we had to stick by her, do things stealthily, and at least be able to give her a little food and care for her as much as we could. caregiver 2 She cared about us too, you know that. caregiver 1 Yes. What is your dream, she asked me once. I said, oh, just to get my golden paper. She was puzzled. Oh, I said, that’s what I call our landed immigrant papers. She pinched me and laughed! caregiver 2 I see. I heard her muttering in her dream once– Golden paper, golden paper. The two caregivers look at each other and laugh softly. Then they look down on the body. The River Spirits enter, help the lying person up, and guide her as they all exit, the caregivers behind the three. While the River Spirits are helping the person up, enter a journalist, talking with a caregiver. They begin to argue. The caregiver, shaking her head, leaves her to join the other caregivers. journalist (Runs after her.) You are lying! I don’t believe you! all Poor you! You don’t know what the truth is. You haven’t really listened to our voices. Look around you. Our stories may not be too different from the stories of others. The whole group turns to face the journalist. Journalist realizes she is alone, and exits. All exit. The River Spirits enter, bringing in another person, and help her lie down. The caregivers, with black veils, stand at both extreme ends of the stage, facing the audience. Officials of the Philippine Consulate and other notable people in the community enter and wave to the caregivers. The Machine is with them. They do not respond. These notables stand beside the body, just like the caregivers were standing in the earlier scene. notable 1 Well, it looks good enough. I was afraid it would look bad.

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Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 3 Scene 3) notable 2 You mean the body….??? Of course, since we donated for the parlour to do something. 190

notable 1 No, I meant the way the papers wrote about us. notable 3 Well, we were able to do damage control. We finally got something to fork out! Well, you people should have something better to say next time! You shouldn’t say we don’t have anything in the funds for sudden deaths of these people. You should shift the responsibility to the home government, so you can at least delay having to give the money. notable 1 But this person didn’t pay for her official welfare funds when she moved from Hong Kong to here! notable 3 That’s another thing. You shouldn’t have said that. You know that we try to keep that somewhat secret from the public, so that we can continue getting all these extras! We changed the policy about the welfare fund, so that we can benefit more from this program, but we tried to do that a little …you know! notable 1 Hmmph! It used to be so easy! notable 2 Well, a lot of these people have been dying. And too many of these people have been organized. Besides, this program has been going on for so long a time, and too many people have been studying it, monitoring it. Too many feminists in this country! notable 3 I have to keep reminding you, that it’s also very politically unstable in the Philippines. Whoever may take over from this government may just want to be different from Marcos, Ramos, Estrada, and…you-know-who. notable 1 You-know-whos, because there are two who are leading the pack. The main, Glorious Main Actress…

notable 2 GMA and the non-official Figaro! notable 1 Can you imagine, these people even wanted to have their tribal council decide on everything about this corpse! notable 3 You know, just because these people are more organized than you are, that shouldn’t get your goat so easily…We have ways to deal with that… Next time, get to their elders quickly enough, and find out how we can circumvent their indigenous ways…What are we in power for ? Remember, these people are able to send off 2 billion in remittances every year, but we control the Machine! notable 1 Well, these guys here control the Machine, too. In fact, I think there are just too many ways in which they can get to the money before we do. The working permits, the upgrading training centres, the employment agencies … notable 2 And those involved in the processing of papers for landed immigrancy…Tsk, tsk,tsk… notable 3 Come on! A lot of those you mentioned are also our compatriots! notable 1 That’s what I’m saying! They’re being divisive. We should all get our act together, and share equally… notable 3 Yeah, too bad we’re not running this country. It’s easier to tax these fly-bynighters and other scum back there… mrs. boss Hey! You guys better get your act together! You’ve got to keep your noses clean and these people happy…well, especially in cases like this…. I’m a business partner with a Canadian company, and we intend to keep doing business back there, as you call it! If there’s too much shouting and crying about human rights, that could change the landscape for me! Tribal music. The dance of solidarity, led by the caregivers. All other actors enter to join the dance.

191

Alinor Ngayan | Operetang maynila (act 3 Scene 3) Poem read backstage: Cogon Flowers 192

o weedbloom shine of diamond grain swell up from the dusty fields o ripple, white breath of my country whisper of days rising pulled up from the roots of centuries drawn from deep wells of mountains risen from the core of dreams our children now within your soft folds, your inspirations turn essays on purity and the hills listen, dazzled your sharp steadfast magic the rationale of their eyes brightness of their supple, mossed limbs image of our tomorrows drench us with your fire suffuse us till we bristle with your spears becoming, through our bodies and through our words of hope mothers, midwives of tomorrow, and with our wide-burst of thoughts laden with noble seeds of brown land laden with green, wide horizons where nestle the warm hearts of freedom, and become invincible! Stage lights dim. Actors take a bow, with crew. House lights on, medium bright. The actors, keeping costumes on, approach audience, and ask for feedback.

MGA kontribyutor contributors

LEVY ABAD, JR. Levy is a singer, songwriter, poet and guitarist. He considers himself as an alternative musician, playing musical pieces with nationalistic themes. He is a member of the group Musikang Bayan. His albums include Canadian Experience Volume 1; Never Give Up- Canadian Experience Volume 2 and Rhythms of Compassion. He is based in Winnipeg. NATALIE AGUSTIN Montreal-based Nalie, graduated from Communication and Cultural Studies with zero idea of what to do with her degree. On July 17, 2013, she was diagnosed with stage 2B breast cancer at the age of 24 tand her lifestyle switched from the usual fun days to a series of hospital appointments, chemotherapy treatments and sick days in bed. Cancer may have destroyed her health, but there was no way it was taking away her soul. In fact she created an upbeat, informative yet entertaining blog about her battle against breast cancer at http://www. nalie.ca JO SIMALAYA ALCAMPO Jo is an interdisciplinary artist who explores cultural/body memory and the healing of intergenerational soul wounds through community storytelling, installation-based art, and electroacoustic soundscapes. JENNILEE AUSTRIA Jennilee is a Filipino-Canadian writer, advocate, facilitator, researcher and mentor. Her work with newcomer students as a settlement worker in schools inspired her to write fiction for young adults. She has an MA in Immigration and Settlement Studies, and is currently enrolled at The Humber School for Writers. YSH Cabaña Ysh is a visual artist based in North York. Since 2010, he has been working in Canada as a designer and an active advocate of Filipino migrant rights and welfare. From winning a logo design competition for Kalayaan Cultural Community Centre, Ysh’s works have been consistently used by community-based organizations for various campaigns: Canadawide human rights tour in 2012, International Day to End Impunity in 2012, and Mabuhay Festival held in Harbourfront Centre among others. PETRONILA CLETO While writing plays for the UP Dulaang Laboratoryo, Pet wrote critiques of the visual arts, film and

theatre. Surviving the Martial Law years, she dedicated herself to political journalism, and wrote for many publications, and co-founded Newsfilm, a video and news agency. Early in the 80s, she became a founding member of many women’s organizations, among them: GABRIELA Philippines; Women for the Ouster of Marcos and Boycott (WOMB); the Concerned Mothers’ League, and the first women’s political party in Asia (Kababaihan para sa Bayan, or KAIBA). She helped establish the pioneering Women’s Crisis Centre (1989), and worked on its board and staff. Self-exiled in Canada, she has been active in the Filipino community, and has given theatre workshops for women. She was invited to join the Writers in Exile Network of PEN Canada in 2006, and was awarded writer-in-residence positions at McMaster University (2008) and George Brown College (2010). BEN S. CORPUZ Ben was an active student leader at the University of the East (UE) when he started writing poetry. He was firstly Vice President, and later on, President of the UE Student Council under KapitBisig Party Alliance. He was also the founding member of the Samahan ng Manunulat sa Pamantasan ng Silangan (SAMAPASIL) , and of the post martial law convenor group of the National Union of Students in the Philippines (NUSP). He came to Canada in 1992 as an independent immigrant and brought in his family a year after through family sponsorship. He is married to Paulina Corpuz, with whom he has three children. An accountant by profession, Ben always puts in a large chunk of time for community work among Filipinos in Scarborough. PAULINA CORPUZ In 1993, Paulina and her daughter Belinda joined Ben in Canada. Two of her kids were later born in Canada. She had started writing in her high school years and later honed her skills at the University of the Philippines in Diliman. She is currently the president and one of the founders of Philippine Advancement for Culture and the Arts (PATAC), a cultural advocacy organization based in Scarborough. DARYL JASON VERZOSA DAVID Currently a postdoctoral researcher at the Institut Pasteur in Paris, Daryl is studying the pathogenic bacteria Listeria. Born in the Philippines, he emigrated with his family to Canada at the age of five. He received

his Bachelor of Science at the University of Toronto specializing in Biochemistry with a Minor in French as a Second Language. Daryl then pursued graduate studies at the University of Toronto and earned his PhD in Cell and Systems Biology, in a Collaborative Program with Developmental Biology. He is proud of his part-time employment, where he acknowledges acquiring the valuable skills of dealing with people, having patience, and working hard. He still chuckles when he is called “Dr. David.” Voltaire de leon Filipino Canadian de Leon is native to Zamboanga City, but has lived and worked in Toronto since 1973, mostly for the Toronto School Board. His active community advocacy started with the anti-martial law movement in the 70s and 80s. He has written commentaries, poems, stories, street and proscenium plays. His best known plays: Carding (de Leon was lead writer); Alos (staged at the Poor Alex Theatre) and Fort Santiago (Theatre Passe Muraille). In 1993, de Leon’s The Woman Everyone Liked won 1st prize in the Toronto Star Short Story Contest. ALEXANDRA DIMAANO Alexandra was born in the Philippines and came to Canada when she was only 15 years old. Her mother Jegma, from Butuan City, is a graduate of Fine Arts from the University of Santo Tomas. Her father Nelson, a true-blooded Batangueno, is a Civil Engineering graduate from the University of the Philippines. Alexandra graduated from elementary with honors, and with a special award in French. She devotes her high school years to prepare for her “dream to be in the field of mass media, graphic design or fashion broadcasting. I want a job that I will enjoy and would give me the opportunity to learn about people and travel the world. I want to prove to the world that the Filipino is worldclass.” Alexandra won 1st prize at the 2008 Philippine Advocacy for Culture and the Arts (PATAC) Essay Writing Contest, in the 1318 year old Category. FRANCESCA “CHING” ESGUERRA Ching was a student of graphic design when she wrote her essay piece as a college course requirement in September 2005. The assignment was to write an original essay and create a graphic design that would reflect the essay’s content. In 2006, she suffered an

incapacitating stroke at age 24. Today she concentrates on rehabilitation, but continues to paint. ALEX FELIPE Having graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Political Science from the University of Toronto, Alex soon found he was to make changes to his original goal of becoming a human rights lawyer. Now a professional photographer, his photo essay about Canadian-owned mining in the Philippines has received honourable mention at the 2009 National Magazine Award for Photojournalism. He teaches at York University, Toronto. RHEA GAMANA Rhea is the producer and a regular host of Radyo Migrante, CHRY 105.5 FM, a community radio in Toronto which advocates for migrants’ issues in Canada. She is also the current chairperson of Anakbayan Toronto. She is a vocalist with the singers’ group Panday Sining and hopes to produce her own album someday. MARYCARL GUIAO MaryCarl is the co-founder and organizer with Fuerza/ Puwersa, a migrant worker advocacy group working in various regions with migrant farm worker communities. She is also the host and producer of Migrant Matters radio on CFRU 93.3 fm in Guelph, Ontario. KAY DE GUZMAN Kay was born in Manila and came to Canada at a young age. She is a freelance writer based in Toronto. KRISTINA DE GUZMAN Kristina is a writer, poet, musician, and community builder. Born in Manila, Philippines, she immigrated to Edmonton, Canada at the age of four and recalls the struggles that her own parents went through as new immigrants during the recession. Her writing credits include the University of Alberta’s The Gateway; SEE Magazine; Vue Weekly and Edmonton Journal. She is also a producer of Rise Up! Radio Free Edmonton on CJSR FM 88.5, through which she opened up dialogue about issues affecting Filipinos in both Canada and the Philippines. Kristina has had four years of work with the Edmonton Immigrant Services Association, doing newcomer outreach in schools and libraries. CATHERINE HERNANDEZ Catherine is the Artistic Director of Sulong Theatre Company, a twice published playwright, multi-

disciplinary performer, caregiver, queer single mama and proud Filipina. On September 21 2012, Catherine immersed herself in a lifeboat filled with filthy water for 24 hours without access to food to raise money and awareness for the un-natural recurring disasters in the Philippines. It involved more than 45 artists and 1100 viewers worldwide. CELINE CHLOE LOPEZ Chloe was 16 years old when she won second prize in Philippines Advocacy for Culture and Arts (PATAC) Essay Writing Contest in 2008. Born in the Philippines, she came to Canada in June 2007. She had already completed two years of high school in the Philippines when she attended Pope John Paul II Secondary School in Scarborough. LAURICE MACARAEG Laurice immigrated to Canada in 1998 at the age of eight. She attended Ryerson University. She won second prize at the 2008 Philippine Advocacy for Culture and the Arts (PATAC) Essay Writing Contest, in the 19- 24 year old Category. OYA MANG-OYAN Oya is a poet, stage actor, short story writer and a songwriter/ musician from Tayabas, Quezon. He immigrated to Canada in 2002. MARION MENDOZA Marion is from Edmonton, Alberta but was born and raised in Winnipeg. He is into poetry and short story writing. BERT MONTERONA Bert is an international awarded painter and visual art designer from the Philippines. He has exhibited his work in Asia, Australia and North America. His bark-like tapestries celebrate indigenous culture, its myths and rituals, and artistic expressions. Working on un-stretched canvas, he is compelled to emulate and pay tribute to the materials used by his indigenous ancestors. He is curently based in Vancouver, British Columbia. ALINOR NGAYAN Poet, journalist and playwright, Alinor was her high school’s Writer of the Year, and, at the University of the Philippines, joined PEN Philippines and the Writers’ Club. Her plays have been produced by UP Dulaang Laboratoryo, the Philippine Women’s University and the Cultural Center of the Philippines. Her historical tableaux represented the Philippines at the Nancy

International Theatre Festival. She is also a noted critic of the visual arts, film and theatre. ESEL L. PANLAQUI Esel calls herself a poet wannabe, frustrated farmer, passionate music lover, self-reliant and a workaholic with special interest in multiculturalism, migration, social justice, women & refugee rights. She has a Social Work degree from the University of the Philippines-Diliman. CESAR POLVOROSA, JR. Cesar is a professor of economics and world geography at the Humber Business School, Toronto, Ontario, and a university adjunct faculty member. He is a published writer in the economics, business and literary fields. His articles on Philippine development have been published by The Manila Review and Interaksyon. His poems and short stories have been published in Page & Spine of North Carolina; Eastlit Literary Journal of East/Southeast Asia; major Philippine national magazines such as the Philippines Free Press and Philippine Panorama; a Japanese English newspaper and a York University literary journal (Canada). His fiction had been anthologized in Likhaan Book of Poetry and Fiction. He was a Writing Fellow at the University of the Philippines National Writers’ Workshop. In Toronto, he was a 2008 Emerging Writer at the Diaspora Dialogues and a Board Director of Story Telling Toronto (2009-11). He was a scholar in his BA, MA and PhD studies. LUI VALDERAMOS QUEAÑO Songwriter-musician and poet Lui lives in Toronto and belongs to a family of musicians and writers. He has published in several literary publications, including the Cultural Centre of the Philippines anthology. Lui is a registered Engineer-In-Training (EIT) under Professional Engineers of Ontario (PEO). EPIFANIO SAN JUAN, JR. An internationally renowned as literary and cultural critic, E. San Juan, Jr. directs Philippines Cultural Studies Center in Connecticut, USA. He received his degrees from the University of the Philippines and Harvard University. San Juan is a member of PEN American Center and the Committees of Correspondence for Democracy and Socialism. He is on the editorial board of Atlantic Studies, Nature Society and Thought, Left Curve, Cultural Logic, Kritika Kultura, Amerasia and other international journals.

ELENA SEBASTIAN Elena is an immigrant youth from Edmonton,Alberta. Elena is a poet and doodler. She is also an active member of Migrante Alberta. REV. FR. GREG M. SEVILLO, CFCM “Makatang Misyoneryo” Fr. Greg was named “Poet of the Seminary” by Our Lady of Guadalupe Minor Seminary, by the San Carlos Major Seminary and by the Divine Word Seminary in Tagaytay City. He was also called the “Priest of the Poor” in the CALABARZON area, or what is otherwise known as the Cavite-Laguna-BatangasQuezon area. He has been writing poetry since 1962. To date, he has written almost 80,000 poems and has published seven books. He attained his degree in Philosophy from the Divine Word Seminary (SVD) and studied Theology at Our Lady of the Angels Seminary (OLAS) in the Philippines. Fr. Greg finished his Masters in Education, Major in Guidance and Counselling, at the Union College of Laguna in Sta. Cruz. He took his Masters in Divinity degree from the University of Winnipeg and is currently working for a Doctorate in Metaphysics from the University of Metaphysics in California, USA. He is presently the Representative of The Congregation of Filipino Catholic Missionaries (CFCM) in Canada. SOUTHEAST CARTEL Southeast Cartel is a group of Filipino youth artists and producers who came together to create music that hopes to solidify the culture and Filipino hip hop in Toronto. With a focus on vernacular rap, SEC members have performed in other local community festivals. They take pride in performing with other Filipino artists--youtube sensations D-pryde, Passion and live acts for Gloc-9 and Bamboo. They are planning to release their next album soon. Southeast Cartel members include Raymond Garcia, Kim ‘Rydeen’ Inesorb, Francis ‘Franchizze’ Fabie, Ian ‘Bustarr’ De Vera, Paul “Pipoy”Torres, Jacques “Check One” Lazaro, Francis “Biggz” Masiglat, and Keith “Skillz” Viloria. CHRISTOPHER SORIO A student activist and a campus journalist when arrested after the declaration of Martial Law, Chris was detained at Camp Bago Bantay for two years. Upon his release, Chris worked with the Task Force Detainees of the Philippines and eventually joined SELDA, the association of ex-detainees. Now a Toronto resident, he has been the Vice Chair of Migrante Canada and

continues to be an activist for migrants’ rights and human rights. IMELDA ORTEGA SUZARA An immigrant to Vancouver, British Columbia in 1978, Imelda is PRO for the Philippine Press Club Ontario (PPCO). Her sonnet book of poetry is available online via http://www.lulu. com/spotlight/isarte ERIC B. TIGLEY Eric is an artist and visual art teacher based in Toronto whose work deals with the complications of being a second generation Canadian-Filipino Visayan. ELLEN TORRES An Albertan of six months who hails from Biñan, Laguna. Writing is not art, according to her. Rather, her perspective is that “it’s a way of educating people regarding everything that exists”. KEITH BENEDICT VILLENA Keith is a proud Dabawenyo. He calls himself a frustrated journalist turned “drive-thru box voice”. He works at Tim Horton’s Coffee, making mornings better, one coffee at a time.

eric tigley | And the Truth Will Set You Free

bert monterona | Butiki